Gunsmoke Signals
by Ghost-Tongued
Summary: HIRUMA/MAMORI; a collection of drabbles, one-shots, and mini-stories.
1. Distraction I: On the Phone

**Title: **Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity; Sexual Implications  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge on the Hiruma/Mamori pairing.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Wow . . . this came out much longer than I had originally thought. Seriously. It just . . . kept going and going.

* * *

**Distraction I: On the Phone**

_Ring . . . ring . . . ring . . ._

It was a little after eleven at night and she was _still_ doing research on the team they would be going up against in the Christmas Bowl. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, dressed in her loose pink pajama top and pants, her cellphone cradled between her raised shoulder and ear as she shuffled through binders and folders holding datasheets, play strategies, and player information. Her television was going, playing a video on a game against the Teikoku Alexanders.

_Ring . . . ring . . . ring . . ._

"Oh, c'mon! Pick up," she grumbled. She was about to hung up and try again when she heard the other end suddenly pick up, followed by silence. "Hiruma-kun?"

On the other end there was a sigh of annoyance and then the usual rude greeting. _"Fuckin' manager."_

"Oh, stop it. I already told you that I was going to check up on you."

A snort. _"I'm fuckin' perfectly capable of hanging up, you know."_

"Then I'll just keep calling until you answer again," she countered coolly.

_"Kekeke, I'll turn my phone off, then. What'll you do next? Use telepathy?"_

"Oh, hush!" she snapped, frowning. His cruel sarcasm was so irritating . . .

_"Says the idiot manager who called **me**."_

She rolled her eyes, 'hmph'ing and deciding to be the bigger person and not reply. Really, nothing ever good came from arguing with the quarterback.

Other than hearing the steady hum of his oxygen capsule, the line fell silent between them. She picked absently at the corner of a sheet of paper, glancing up every now and then at her television when the referee shouted 'touchdown'.

_"Is that it?"_

She jolted slightly. "Huh?"

_"I said are you done fucking nanny-ing me? I'd like to sleep some time tonight."_

Her lips thinned and she felt her hackles rise again as her grip tightened on the phone. "Yes, I'm done 'nanny-ing' you, you jerk. You know, God forbid anyone should care about your well-being, Hiruma! I mean, _really!_ Can't you –"

She was interrupted when she heard a sharp intake of breath, and then a pained grunt.

"Hiruma?" she inquired, worry immediately overtaking her anger. "What's wrong? Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

At first she didn't receive any reply and her worry mounted into fear. She opened her mouth to call for him again when she was cut off once more.

_"**What**?" _

His tone sounded incredulous and even slightly indignant. She frowned a little. Did she say something wrong?

_"'Are you hurt'? Did you seriously just fuckin' ask me that?"_

At that, she immediately realized her mistake. She could feel a blush of embarrassment rise into her cheeks. That did sound kind of dumb . . .

"Well, no. I mean, I didn't mean like that! I . . . ," she trailed off sheepishly. Too late . . . the damage was already done.

Hard laughter. _"Am I hurt? Damn manager, my __**arm**__ is __**broken**__!"_

"No, I know that!" she said, trying desperately to disengage the thorough mocking and insulting she was about to undergo any second.

_"What, suffering a compound fracture doesn't count as 'hurt' in your book, idiot manager? Would you have preferred it if that fuckin' caveman ripped it **off**?"_

"Hiruma, stop it!" she shouted angrily, biting her lip. Why did he have to be so mean to her? Did it really bother him so much that someone cared about his health? "I didn't mean for it to come out that way! Really, it was just . . . a reflexive response."

_"A reflexively **stupid** one. Haven't you ever heard of that damn saying 'Think before you speak'?"_

"Argh! I called you to make sure you were doing okay, and now that I know you are I'm just going to leave you alone now. Goodnight, Hiruma-kun."

And with that she hung up abruptly, not even caring if he had planned on saying anything.

She angrily threw the phone down next to her, but the force of it made it bounce off the covers and fall to the floor. She ignored it and busied herself with cleaning up the mess on her bed, stuffing the papers carelessly and roughly in the pocketed folders and binders.

"Stupid Hiruma-kun," she grumbled, gathering up the folders and binders and moving to a corner of her room to stack them up on the floor. "Why do I even bother with him? He's so rude and vulgar and selfish!"

She went around, straightening and tidying up her room a bit, trying to burn off some of her frustration.

"He never cares about anyone else unless they're beneficial to him in some way!" she continued under her breath, switching off her television and extracting the disk from the DVD player. "I would not be surprised _at all_ if someone told me the breaking of his arm was just an act of karma."

Sighing, she switched off her lamp, causing her room to be thrown into complete darkness except for the gentle green glow of her digital alarm clock.

She climbed into bed quietly, feeling more exhausted than before after having dealt with the devilish quarterback. In fact, she always felt tired whenever she was around him. His violent tendencies, loud and obnoxious behavior, and weapon-toting obsession . . . she had to deal with it all when she was in his presence; day in and day out.

"This can't be healthy," she murmured, rolling onto her side and snuggling tighter into the covers.

_Bzzzzzt_ . . . _bzzzzzt . . . bzzzzzt . . ._

She slowly slide open her eyes, frowning when she saw a glow emitting over the side of her bed. She scooted to the edge and glanced down at the floor.

Her phone.

It was vibrating from a call, its screen glowing a bright blue. And in the middle of the screen read the caller's name:

_Hiruma Youichi._

Confused, she reached down and snatched it up, staring at the screen. Why was he calling her?

Part of her was ordering her to leave it alone; do not answer. A second part of her was curious and even worried, demanding that she pick up. And a third, much smaller part of her . . . one she did not like dwelling on . . . was squealing that an attractive guy was calling her; begging that she pick up.

She blushed at the thought, throwing it at the back of her mind. Other than maybe his looks, there was definitely nothing _remotely _attractive about Hiruma.

Still, it was two against one . . .

She flipped the phone open and put it to her ear. "Hello?"

_"Oi, I called you five fuckin' times, shitty manager. Did you put the damn thing on vibrate?"_

She rolled her eyes and settled back into her covers, burying her face into her pillow and sighing, "What do you want, Hiruma-kun?"

_"Nothing. I'm bored."_

"And I'm tired," she countered, though that was only half true. For some reason, she felt a bit more awake now. She frowned at that.

_"Too bad; talk to me. Let's fucking bond."_

She choked, eyes widening. "W-What?!"

_"Kekeke."_

"Hiruma!" He never stopped, did he?

_"Aw, fucking chill, manager. Pull that tree out of your ass and have a little fun once in a while."_

She scowled. "Thank you, but I don't need advice from a man whose _own_ fun consists of extortion, owning every weapon ever made in the world, and being an overall jerk to people."

She could hear the grin in his voice. _"No need to be jealous of my achievements."_

She sighed, making sure he heard it. She heard him chuckle in response, and then, like before, other than the machinery hum of his oxygen capsule, the line fell silent.

For a moment she felt her cheeks heat up, realizing that she was talking to a man . . . at night . . . while in bed . . . and it didn't even have anything to do with football. Granted, it was Hiruma . . . but he was still a man!

And the more she thought about it, the hotter her blush became.

Talking to him like this was strangely . . . intimate.

And then he broke the silence.

_"So, damn manager . . . ever had phone sex?"_

"HIRUMA-KUN!"

* * *

OMAKE:

She woke up the next morning feeling wonderfully refreshed and that was odd in itself seeing as Hiruma had continued being a jerk to her before she fell asleep, though because they had at least fallen into a conversation about football, she had tolerated his little barbs a bit more.

She yawned and sat up, stretching her arms above her head and trying to remember the last bit of their conversation.

She moved to get up when her hand bumped into her phone. She blinked, startled to find that it was in bed with her. She picked it up and examined at the screen . . . and then paled.

The call was still going.

She quickly pressed it to her ear and tentatively whispered, ". . . Hiruma-kun . . . ?"

_"Mmm? Heh, morning, fucking sleeping beauty."_

Her eyes widened. "Oh – oh, my God! Hiruma! Did I – ? Was the phone – !?"

_"Kekeke. You did, and it was. Fuckin' all night long."_

"Why didn't you hang up?!" she squeaked accusingly, feeling awful and totally embarrassed for falling asleep in the middle of their conversation.

_"Your damn snoring was priceless. I just **had** to record it."_

"_What!? _Hiruma! You – you –!" she cried, too flustered to come up with a proper insult.

His laughter was absolutely evil. _"And then you were moaning 'Hiruma! Oh, harder Hiruma! Love me, you great, wonderful man!'"_

She gaped, her mouth forming words, but her voice was frozen in mortification.

The only thing she could manage was an exasperated "OH, YOU JERK!" before slapping her phone closed on his laughter.

When her mother had inquired why she was so upset that morning, she gladly told her everything, wanting to vent desperately. It was a wonder that her mother didn't laugh. In fact, out of all the outrageous things she had repeated that Hiruma had said, her mother could only remark to one.

"But honey," her mother said, smiling gently, "you don't snore."


	2. Distraction XXV: Out of Place

**Title: **Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity; Sexual Implications  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge on the Hiruma/Mamori pairing.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Ugh, sorry for the lack of updates, guys. Hopefully this one was worth the wait?

* * *

**Distraction XXV: Out of Place**

Something was really out of place, Sena had decided nervously.

It was a nice day out in the picnic area of the school. Cool breezes gently picked off and carried away what leaves were left on the skeletal, hibernating trees that stood tall on the school grounds. The nipping, gentle wind teased various students' faces as they cheerfully ate their lunches and chatted noisily with their fellow Deimon High peers.

He could only stare, mouth slightly agape, next to an equally stunned Monta, unable to fully comprehend the scene that was unfolding right in front of him.

No one else seemed to notice how close Mamori and Hiruma were sitting. So close that the latter had his body twisted a certain way so that his shoulder wasn't knocking into the former. The position made it appear as if Mamori herself was nearly sitting in his lap as they discussed the plays laid out in front of them.

It was disconcerting enough to see them sitting like that without needing to also watch Hiruma's chopsticks pluck another piece of chopped celery from Mamori's bento. Actually, that wasn't what bothered him. Really, Hiruma doing something that rude actually came off as normal . . .

No, it was the fact that Mamori, not even looking up from the data sheets, was returning the same gesture. He watched as she absently dug her chopsticks in the small box in from of their football captain and picked out an apple wedge.

"They're . . . they're sharing food?" Monta whispered, sounding a bit frightened.

He nodded numbly, murmuring, "I wonder . . . if they even know?"

It was the only logical reason he could come up with. They seemed so caught up in analyzing the game plays, even occasionally jabbing chopsticks at the sheets of paper when a tiny argument ensued, to realize that they were eating each other's lunches.

But . . . if that wasn't the reason . . .

He glanced at Monta who returned the look. A silent understanding distinguished itself between them before they turned back to stare at their conversing control towers.

Sena, with an encouraging elbow-dig to his side, courtesy of the receiver, was the one to speak up on their suspicion.

"U-um . . . are you two . . . together?" he slowly asked, and it was as if the world came to a screeching halt at the innocent but explosive question. He blinked, wide-eyed, and looked around. Everyone on the Devilbats football team, as well as other surrounding students, froze and immediately stared at the quarterback and team manager, clearly knowing who the question was directed.

_Apparently they noticed after all_, Sena thought, and then swallowed nervously when the subjects of his question paused, their chopsticks stilling in one another's lunches.

Sena should have expected the next reaction. Hiruma's mouth split into that insane grin that always made one's blood run cold with fear. Before anyone could say anything, he quickly snatched up both bentos and held them out and away, cackling down at the gaping Mamori. "Fucking manager, what the hell are you doing? Not enough that you ate ten creampuffs this morning, but you gotta pig out on other people's lunches, too?"

"Hiruma-kun!" Mamori gasped, outraged, and nearly took the lanky, broad-shouldered teen right off the bench when she launched herself against him, reaching in vain to rescue her kidnapped bento that was easily being held out of range.

"_Kekeke_, you need to go on a diet starting right fucking now. Watch it! Don't sit on me! You'll break my legs, fucking manager."

"_Ooh!_ I'll break your legs anyway, you jerk! I am _not_ fat!"

"_Ho-o?_ Did you just threaten me, Miss Disciplinary-Committee?"

Sena actually breathed a sigh of relief as the two fell into a routine of arguing that felt so normal that it was scary.

"Phew! Worried Max," Monta whispered and made a show of dramatically slouching in his seat and wiping away non-existent sweat from his brow.

He smiled a little in agreement and watched as Mamori smacked their captain in the shoulder, the latter laughing devilishly in response.

He'd been worried, too . . . because Mamori's reaction to the question - the look of horrified guilt and the harsh blush that had immediately painted over her face - actually had him believing that it was true.

* * *

OMAKE:

"Do you . . . really think I should go on a diet?" Mamori inquired delicately, chewing on her bottom lip as she attempted to look at her body in her makeup mirror.

"You're fine," came a nonchalant response, almost drowned out the clicking of keyboard keys. She made an exasperated face and looked up from her mirror to glare at the spiky-haired blond lounging back in his chair at the other end of the roulette table, his long, long legs braced up on the surface.

She rolled her eyes and lifted the mirror again, a small, worried frown creasing between her slender eyebrows.

"Knock it off," came an annoyed growl from across the table. She looked up, startled by the aggressive tone. Sharp, emerald-green eyes were glaring at her over the black laptop screen.

Feeling a blush of embarrassment warm her cheeks, she did as she was told, placing the compact mirror back in her bag. She quietly got up and reached for her broom. She attempted to work off the insecurity that was still burning in her heart by beating back the dust and dirt, but it did little to help. She couldn't stop thinking that maybe . . . just maybe . . . she _did_ need to go on a diet. She couldn't deny that she had put on a few pounds . . .

She felt her esteem drop a bit more when she thought of all the creampuffs she actually _had_ consumed that morning . . .

A large, long-fingered hand shackled itself around her wrist, and she squeaked when she was roughly yanked down. She fell against a strong, toned abdomen and into the cradle of narrow hips. Before she could jump back up or say something in protest, long, defined arms came encased around her. At first, she was shocked beyond words, thinking he was going to hug her.

Until she felt the weight of a laptop being balanced on her thigh, followed by the sound of resumed typing.

"I fucking said knock it off," it was coolly voiced. To emphasize that point, the top of her head received a sharp, reprimanding nudge from an angled jaw before it rested itself there.

For one, long moment, she didn't say anything; she couldn't. She didn't even dare to breathe. She stared off into a dark corner, listening to her heart pound, the rapid clicking of keys, and an occasional popping of gum.

And then . . . finally . . . she managed to find her voice, albeit it was breathy and soft, and she wasn't too sure he heard her. "This can't be comfortable . . ."

The typing never paused as another bubble popped over her head.

"It's not."

But there was no movement to imply that she should get up, nor was she told to do so. Instead, she heard the silent, underlining message in his words: _'It's not, so fucking enjoy it while I'm letting you, damn girlfriend.'_

She bit her lip to keep from smiling largely and took him up on the silent offer, settling herself against his warm, firm body and resting her cheek against his broad chest. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in his clean, male scent and listened by the strong, steady rhythm of his heart beating just beneath the surface . . .


	3. Distraction VI: Kiss

**Title: **Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity; Sexual Implications  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge on the Hiruma/Mamori pairing.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I originally had a Halloween piece for the Hiruma/Mamori pairing, but I couldn't get it finished in time. I thought about finishing it and putting it up despite Halloween being over, but decided against it. I'll just do it next year, lol. Anyway, please give me your honest opinion of this chapter.

* * *

**Distraction VI: Kiss**

She was a romantic at heart and she wasn't ashamed to admit it. She still dreamed of a beautiful happily-ever-after, picturing her knight-in-shining-armor as being tall, muscular, charming, and romantic. She dreamed that they would fall deeply in love, never wanting to be apart from each other. He would protect her from the evil forces in the world and she would be there to care for him whenever he fell ill or sustained injuries in battle. She imaged their first kiss to be magical and beautiful: soft, full lips pressed against hers, spearing passion and love straight to her heart. It would warm her to her very toes and bring tears of happiness to her eyes.

And never, in her wildest imagination, would she have known that her first kiss would be given by the very evil forces her prince would have protected her from.

The gasp was stolen from her throat, and the solid wood of the broomstick she had been holding in her small hands fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Her eyes widen, their light-blue depths brimming with shock and even a bit of fright.

She never really noticed how big he was, just how broad his shoulders were, until he had already backed her into a corner. The remarkable breadth of his body, capable of fooling anyone of an unhealthy lankiness from a distance, was frightening. It surrounded her, filling her vision of only him until the clubroom was blocked out completely.

Wide, male lips were moving lazily over her own, gently coaxing her into responding; to return the soft, warm kiss. Hands, broad-palmed and slightly roughened from callousness caused by countless football passes and constantly handling heavy weaponry, were cupping either side of her face, their impossibly long, strong fingers buried deep in her shortly-styled hair, securing her inability to pull away.

He smelled good.

It was an innocent revelation, but it only served to kick her already franticly beating heart into harder rhythm. The faint scent of gunpowder was mixed with a spicy, enticing cologne and something so deliciously masculine that it was awakening something primitively female within her. It stirred and stretched lazily, purring with interest at the male mercilessly assaulting her senses.

His sharp, feline eyes were closed to her wide, startled ones, unperturbed with having his vulgarity-spitting mouth locked with hers. When she felt his warm, slick tongue slide along her lower lip, caressing, the gasp it elicited from her parted her lips. The action was immediately exploited, the sharp-tipped tongue sweeping aggressively inside and filling the depths of her mouth. His lips shifted, angling themselves before tightly fastening against her own, deepening the kiss utterly.

A soft sound from her throat; a whimper of total surrender.

Her eyelids fluttered closed then and she gave herself up to the gluttonous consumption of his hot, hungry kiss. His taste was sweet, of mint, as he devoured her. His tongue was twisting around her smaller one, conquering; dominating; robbing her of her ability to think rationally.

Her hands, as if of their own accord, were slowly pushing up his body, feeling the warm, unyielding muscles under the lightly wrinkled fabric of his uniform's white undershirt; over a hard abdomen; up the solid wall of his chest; around the thick column of his neck before sinking her fingers into the soft, thick mass of spiky, bleach-blond hair.

Her body was throbbing with rising heat. Her blood was thickening in her veins. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

When his tongue gradually withdrew and the pressure of his soft lips against hers lessened, a small sound of protest rose from her throat before she could stop it.

A soft chuckle and the lingering brush of lips had her eyelids lifting slowly.

She swallowed, blinking dazedly as heat rose into her cheeks. Her gaze came to focus on heavy-lidded eyes as green as raw emeralds, the eyelashes bracketing them so long and black that they could make any makeup model envious.

Those devastatingly beautiful eyes dropped to her mouth when she absently ran the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip.

Her blush grew hotter as she realized just how deliciously swollen and sore her lips felt from the heated, ravishing kiss.

The large, warm hands caressing her jaw let her go and the tall, towering frame trapping her in the corner pulled back, bringing the room back into existence.

She took in his arrogantly smirking face, his feline eyes glittering with such male satisfaction that she felt the feminine pride in her balking in outrage, demanding that she stop looking, or feeling, so effected by the kiss.

Trying to gain some thread of control on her spinning mind, she managed a single, trembling whisper. "H . . . Hiruma?"

So simple, his name. But it was wrapped with such confusion, shy wonderment, and even traces of fear that she actually felt his answer could be disastrous or pure elation to her suddenly traitorous heart as it pounded for the latter.

"_Kekeke _. . . See you next year, fucking Anezaki."

She gaped at him, her voice lost to her, as he gave her a short, two-fingered wave before stuffing his hands in his jeans' pockets and walking right out of the clubhouse, a self-satisfied smirk on his sharp, demonically beautiful features, leaving her to stand there in mind-numbing confusion.


	4. Distraction VII: Hug, Tackle, Glomp

**Title: **Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity; Sexual Implications  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge on the Hiruma/Mamori pairing.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Like the first one, this one kept going and going, lol.

* * *

**Distraction VII: Hug; Tackle; Glomp**

Intimidation.

For the longest time she could never understand why everyone was so terrified of him. She never felt intimidated by him in all the years she'd known of him, nor during the year that she actually _had_ to spend time around him, via football practices, games, and even the little adventures he made them go on.

But in all the time she'd known him, she had never put herself in this sort of position before; the position of actually understanding why other teams, especially the weaker ones, feared him; the position of being on _his_ territory.

Despite it only being a week after their victorious battle at the Christmas Bowl, the weather was actually very nice; cool and breezy, but not cold and biting. The midnight sky hanging above them was a beautiful, velvety black, enhanced by the blanket of stars glittering like diamonds in contrast to the darkness.

The field was basically deserted, lost to the night's cool, dark embrace except for the dim, silver illumination casting along the ground from the full moon hanging high in the clear, dark sky.

She never felt so threatened, staring into the narrow, emerald-green eyes directly in front of her, the wicked, shark-toothed grin split wide in the sharp, light-skinned features of the Devilbats' now former captain.

The smooth ridges in the ball's leather skin felt slick in her small, clammy hand. Her heart was racing with adrenaline, excitement, and fright as she stared evil, quite literally, in the face.

Even his bigger body was a threat all on its own. His shoulders, even without the wide padding of his protective gear, were still impressively broad, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw those hard muscles flex, a light stirring under the light blue, unkempt layer of his shirt. It was a subtle warning; a telling of raw power, of strength that would take her down if she dared challenge it.

But she knew better. He wouldn't _really_ tackle her . . . if not for the reason that she was a girl – a girl who wasn't ashamed to admit the truth of her being more delicate than him – than at least for the fact that they weren't wearing protective padding.

No, he wouldn't hurt her. Not intentionally, anyway.

. . . Right?

Her eyes dropped from his for a single second, trying gather courage that was greedily being sapped out of her by the devious glint in his feline eyes.

And her breath caught when her gaze landed on the wide expanse of his chest. Being crouched down, upper body lowered closer to the field's crisp, recently trimmed grass, gave her a devastating view of the defined ridge of his collarbone and a brief glimpse of the solid pectorals, flashing her brazenly through the widely unbuttoned, long-sleeved shirt.

"What'cha looking at, fucking ex-manager. . . ?"

Her eyes jolted back up to his, heat of mortification immediately burning in her cheeks. Her heart was pounding at the soft, taunting tone of his voice. His arrogant smirk was taking on a different edge now . . . something sly; something . . . predatory.

Another, dangerous shift of muscle was the only motive her already frightened mind needed to mentally scream the command to run.

"HUT!" she squeaked, immediately dodging to the side just as he suddenly pounced, a long, toned arm stretched out to catch and wrap around her waist. But he missed when her terrified instincts took over, twisting her away from the danger, the heel of her tennis shoe digging into the ground, grinding up grass and dirt.

It couldn't have been that easy. No, he was toying with her; he had to be. Even though he was just a high school student, she knew that he could be seen as experienced on an impressive, professional level. No one could ever say the same about her. Up until joining the American football club she never once _thought_ about the sport, much less partook in it in any sort of way.

But whether he missed intentionally or not, she didn't care. She couldn't care. She just needed to run; to get to the other end of the field; to avoid getting tackled by Deimon High's blackmailing delinquent.

_Just one touchdown,_ she thought breathlessly as she ran like a frightened mouse down the darkened football field, guided only by the faint, ghostly light of the moon, the light-weight football tucked protectively against her body. _Just one touchdown and he'll call me by my real name . . . if only once . . ._

* * *

_She pulled her comfortable, Devilbat-crimson letterman jacket tighter around her small body, a soft smile curling her lips as she strolled up the concrete ramp to the iron railing blocking in the bleachers and overlooking Deimon High's massive football field._

_She sighed wistfully as she wrapped her fingers around the cold steel of the railing, her eyes taking in the magnificent view of the field as it was gently caressed by the silvery moonlight._

_It was a beautiful night; very serene, peaceful. It made it sort of hard to imagine that only days ago they had taken on the strongest high school in Tokyo, famous for being undefeated since the very first Christmas Bowl. Their victory, even though it was by one point, was still sinking in. Part of her was still shocked; it felt like a dream._

_How could it have happened? It wasn't possible that they could have defeated the Teikoku Alexanders. After all, the majority of Deimon Devilbats had never even played football until Hiruma had recruited them. Some were even taken from different sports! They were all amateurs, not knowing what they were doing, guided only by the frightening, relentless Hiruma and the patient, encouraging Kurita._

_But . . . it hadn't been a dream. _

_They __**had**__ risen from the dirt, taking on teams who had been more experienced and qualified, winning on only spirit, determination, and Hiruma's sharp intelligence alone. _

_She felt the hot prickling of tears well up in her eyes, becoming overwhelmed with pride and happiness. They had come such a long way . . . Sena was no longer a weak boy, always the target of bullies. Monta had reached his goal of ten years, becoming a recognized ace catcher._ _The Huh-Huh Brothers found a goal they could reach together and be recognized for what they __**can**__ do; not for what they __**did**__. Even __Yukimitsu had developed an ambition that wasn't a part of the classroom._

_And more than anything . . . they'd given Hiruma, Kurita, and Musashi their strived-for dream, taking the team to the Christmas Bowl. And then they had gone one step farther and given the original Devilbats a gift: the victory._

_"Oi, fucking ex-manager."_

_Her breath caught, startled, and she turned her eyes up into the bleachers. Sitting there, donned in tight, faded jeans and his own letterman jacket, a black version of hers, was the Devilbats' ex-quarterback, lazily twirling a football between his hands._

_"Hiruma-kun," she murmured, blinking in surprise, a warm blush rising into her cheeks. Had he'd been there the whole time?_

_He flashed her his shark-toothed grin, his dark green eyes glinting in the moonlight._

_She felt a smile blossoming in response. Everything was going to change now that they were going to be third years, unable to take part in extracurricular activities. But if there was one thing she could put faith into staying the same, it was Hiruma._

_She took a step back when he got up and lightly jumped down beside her. He was so tall, his body towering over her, that she had to tilt her head back in order to look him in the face._

_"What are you doing here?" she inquired curiously._

_"Kekeke . . . planning world domination, fucking ex-manager."_

_She gave him an exasperated look as he cackled and brushed past her. She quickly followed, coming to fall in step next to him. A comfortable silence drifted over them as they walked absently along the main isle of the bleachers. She snuck glance up at him. He had a hand tucked in a pocket of his letterman jacket, the other idly tossing the oval-shaped ball up in the air as he slowly exhaled a blue bubble of gum._

_She looked away again. She stared down at her moving feet, her hands clasped shyly in front of her. "So . . . what will you do now? Will you . . . go professional?"_

_Her voice came out softer than she had intended, and for a long moment, she thought he either hadn't heard her or was ignoring her._

_She looked up in time to see the blue bubble pop. He voice was flat; serious._

_"No. It was never my intention to pursue a career in football. That's fucking pork bun's dream. Even shitty mohawk doesn't plan on going pro."_

_"Oh," she murmured, a little surprised by his reply. With all the passion and determination he had put into the team, she'd always thought he would want to continue it after high school. "Well, what are your plans then?"_

_He came to a stop, and as if she was tied to him, she did as well. He turned to face her and leaned back against the railing, a smirk lighting up the sharp features of his face._

_"Not that it's any of your fucking business," he drawled, his smirk broadening when she flashed him an irritated look, "but I plan on leaving for America in a week. Gonna go abroad and all that shit. Get a degree in business and management."_

_"Oh, well . . . that's . . . wonderful . . ." He didn't just drop a bomb . . . he dropped a _**_nuclear_**_ bomb. She could only stare at him, eyes wide with shock. He shrugged before tilting his head back to stare up at the midnight sky._

_He was leaving . . . ? In a _**_week_**_ . . . ? How long had he been planning this? Had he even had any intentions of telling anyone?_

_She swallowed, her mouth having gone dry. "Will . . . will you be coming back?"_

_He didn't divert his gaze from the starry, black sky, when he responded, his tone aloof and matter-of-fact. "Doubtful. Might visit the fucking porker and fucking old man. Maybe even see how the fucking shrimps are holding up."_

_'What about me . . . ?'_

_She nearly choked, astonished by that thought. What _**_about_**_ her? So what if he was leaving? It's not like she _**_cared_**_ what he did . . ._

_'Lies . . .' whispered the thought._

_She clenched her hands tightly, staring at him. He was so handsome . . . Smooth, light skin almost glowing in the moonlight; the thick, blond spikes of hair moving faintly in a cool breeze; his eyes watching the stars leisurely. His whole posture was carefree; at ease._

_There was a chance she would never see him again . . . and she should have felt thrilled; relieved. Lord knew the school would be at peace at last. But she didn't feel anything other than. . . disappointment. She wouldn't call it sadness. No. She was not sad._

_She pursed her lips, eyes narrowing._

_She surprised him, his body jerking, when she suddenly reached out and snatched the football from his hands._

_"Oi, what the hell are you doing?" he demanded, though the bite wasn't in his tone as he stared down at her._

_She smiled, patting the ball enthusiastically as she said cheerfully, "You like to make bets, right? What if I said I can get a touchdown on a one-on-one with you? If I do, you have to call me by my first name, at least once."_

_She was being crazy, taking on the devil of Deimon High in his area of expertise. And for what? She wanted to hear him call her Mamori, and she wanted him to mean it. Not like the day when she had been kidnapped._

_Instead of laughing at her or blowing her off as being ridiculous like she had original thought he'd do, he just grinned manically and quickly stole the ball back._

_"And if I win?" he purred, green eyes glittering with devious gleefulness._

_She blinked. If he won? He was allowing her to choose the outcome of his possible victory?_

_She must not have responded fast enough because he started cackling again as he began walking down toward the field. "Kekeke. Never mind. I'll think of something, fucking ex-manager."_

* * *

She was almost there. She was almost to the end zone!

She could see the towering pole of the goalpost tucked comfortably in the darkness, the soft moonlight having reached it just short.

Her lungs were laboring, her breath coming in loud, hard bursts in the quiet night. Her heart was hammering with adrenaline and exertion. Her legs were beginning to burn with each lift, and perspiration finely dotted her forehead.

She was scared out of her mind due to the fact that Hiruma had all but disappeared. She couldn't hear him anywhere, but she didn't dare stop to see if he was still around. No, she wasn't going to fall for his tricks!

A grin of victory bloomed prettily across her face, a giggle bubbling up in her chest as she neared the white stripe painting the grass, marking the goal line. She won! _She won!_

An arm shot out from the darkness, its light-blue sleeve rolled up to expose the taut, smooth skin of its strong forearm, snapping and locking around her waist. The muscles in the arm clenched with strength and she squeaked when she was suddenly halted in her desperate sprint and was hauled back roughly against a solid, warm body, taking her down to the crisp cushioning of the grass with its heavier weight.

"Oof!" she gasped, her breathing hard and labored, and her mind spinning with surprise.

Tackled. She'd been tackled.

And he'd . . . been gentle about it. It'd been no more uncomfortable than as if she had simply fallen on her own.

That thought caused a curious fluttering in her stomach as her cheeks with burned with indignation. He'd been toying with her! He had let her _think_ that she was going to win . . . and then came in at the last second and effortlessly took her down, her victory only feet away!

As if reading her frustrated thoughts, warm breath gusted over her ear when he chuckled.

"Too bad, fucking ex-manager. And you were so close, too."

She scowled and jerked her body against the muscled arm still wrapped around her waist, a silent demand that he let her up. When it only tightened, holding her pinned against the length of his body, she stilled, her heart slowly beginning to pound with something other than physical exertion.

She became painfully aware of everything in that moment. The cool, night air; the grass tickling her cheek; the leather of the ball held to her chest; the heart beating a strong, steady against her back; the soft breath warmly caressing the nape of her neck.

Swallowing, she shied a glance over her shoulder. The tip of her nose almost brushed his and her heart jumped.

The somberness of his expression, the light frowning of his mouth and seriousness in his deep green eyes, had her breath quickening and her eyes searching his.

"H . . . Hiruma?" she murmured, her voice breathless. The arm uncoiled from her waist and he brought his large, long-fingered hand up to catch her chin.

"Hnn," was her only response before he closed the distance and brushed his lips gently over her own.

Her breath caught in a gasp, her light-blue eyes widening. It was the barest of touches; so faint that it could hardly be considered a kiss, but she felt its impact right to her little toes. It was like a shot of adrenaline, overwhelming her body's senses.

He drew back, a light, cocky smirk hovering over her parted, slightly trembling lips, before pulling away completely.

She blinked, stunned, as he got to his feet, dusting off his jeans. She dimly watched him when he started digging around in his back pockets. He cursed and started searching his front pockets.

Whatever he was looking for he must have found it because a wide, maniacal grin split across his features.

He suddenly turned toward her and fell into a crouch in front of her just as she was pushing herself into a sitting position.

"Hey!" she started when long fingers wrapped loosely around one of her wrists and snatched it up. She saw that the object he'd been scouring his pockets for happened to be a simple, black-inked pen, and he used it on her palm, scribbling something on her skin.

Finishing, he capped the pen and stood back up.

Smirking, he pointed the pen at her hand as she curiously read over the message. "No one else knows about that, not even the fucking fat ass or shitty kicker. Give it to anyone and I'll send you to Hell."

She stared at her hand and then up at him, silently asking why he would give her something so clearly private. Instead of elaborating, he just picked up the football sitting abandoned next to her and wordlessly walked past her, leaving her to herself on the dark football field.

For a long while, she just sat that, basking in the silver moonlight. She smiled, nibbling on her bottom lip as she snuck another peek at the messily written letters in the middle of her hand: _devilbat_commander21 (a) aol . com_

Now . . . if only she could learn how to work a computer . . .


	5. Distraction XIX: Running Water

**Title: **Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity; Sexual Content  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge on the Hiruma/Mamori pairing.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This is part one of a two or three-part piece. WARNING! This drabble contains an explicit sexual situation with some graphic descriptions and vulgar words and profanity. Read at your own risk, please. :]

* * *

**Distraction XIX: Running Water, Part I**

She was _so_ frustrated with herself.

She hurriedly jogged back toward the school, the golden glow from the street lamps illuminating her exasperated expression as she passed under them.

God, she was so stupid! After all, leaving the folder with all the crucial plays against the Teikoku Alexanders had definitely _not_ been the smartest thing she'd ever done. Oh, it'd been just a simple mishap, of course . . .

But it was a small mishap that she hoped the team captain hadn't discovered yet.

With the Christmas Bowl only a few days away, the man had become nearly _intolerable_. He'd turned into a complete beast during practices, even though everyone was being trained by the aces of previous opponents. With his transfigured oxygen capsule, he'd made it a frightening habit of chasing down and nearly running over anyone he caught taking even a ten-second breather without his permission.

And even though she was just the manager, she felt just as rundown as the rest of them, having been forced to write out every play imaginable and placing them in every scenario possible. Then there was writing up every possible counterattack the Teikoku Alexanders might form against them, researching everything on every single player on the team, and then having to discuss them with him. That lattermost bit alone was strength-draining.

Even Hiruma's obnoxious personality had grown impossibly worse. He didn't just tease and taunt her about her mothering habits, or her tendency to oppose him, or her sugar addiction now. No, he now picked on her about the silliest of things, like her hair, her clothes, her handwriting, how she walked, and even how she ate.

It was _horrible_.

And it never helped when he was particularly nasty on the days that she didn't get a good night's sleep.

At one point, Musashi and Doburoku-sensei had both reassured her that it was just his restlessness from being confined to his oxygen capsule nearly twenty-four hours every day, and that it wouldn't be too unreasonable if he was still feeling a bit of pain and discomfort in his arm. They also confided in her of their suspicion that he was actually excited about the upcoming game, and that Hiruma being, well, Hiruma . . . he was just expressing it in the most violent, negative ways he possibly could.

Still . . . if he found that folder . . .

She groaned.

He would make her so miserable.

He would most likely see it as laziness; extreme, unforgivable neglectfulness. He would probably be so mean about it that, depending on her state of mind, she feared she might actually hit him the next chance she caught him outside the capsule.

And that would only make things worse, she knew immediately. She could see him now, taking out that dreadful extortion book and jotting down something along the lines of _"Disciplinary Committee Officer assaults injured and defenseless student in a random act of violence."_

When she finally crossed the school grounds, she made a bee-line for the short building that was tucked in the overcastting shadow of the school's main building.

She halted her brisk walk when she finally reached to the gray door, but she fought the urge to immediately throw open the door.

Trying to catch her breath and gather her panic-crazed wits, she realized she had to go about this sensibly. After all, she wasn't entirely sure if Hiruma was still there, as he was always the last to leave. But if he was, she knew she would have to act cool and pretend that she had left something else. Depending where he was in the room, she could try sneaking the folder on her way out.

Assuming that he hadn't _noticed_ it already, and she prayed silently that he hadn't.

Inhaling deeply, steadying herself and falling into cool and collected roll, she grabbed the door's handle and slid the door open.

The clubroom was quiet and dark, save for a soft, golden light that filtered in from the adjacent locker room. The light and the sound of a shower running were damning evidence that the clubhouse wasn't vacant.

And that 'someone' was clearly the insufferable quarterback, proof being that his oxygen capsule was resting, silent and empty, on the dark floor near the entrance to the locker room.

But she wasn't paying attention to that.

Her gaze was riveted to the worn, black folder peeking out from under the binder, both sitting on the middle shelf of the bookshelf huddled in the corner She smiled, immensely relieved to find that it was where she had left it.

Warily, watching the open threshold of the locker room, as if she expected Hiruma to show up any second – or maybe even be waiting for her – she crept over to the bookshelf and quickly snatched the overstuffed folder out from under the binder.

Just as quickly, she started back toward the door, wanting to get out of there as fast as possible before she was caught.

Until she heard a noise.

Her hand froze on the door handle. Blinking, she turned toward the locker room, unsure that she heard right.

_"Fuck . . ."_

Her eyes widened slightly. That time, she heard it crystal clear.

But . . .

Brows furrowing faintly, she moved away from the door and slowly, uncertainly, toward the locker room, feeling the first inklings of worry. Was he all right? He sounded as if he was . . . in pain?

She heard his muffled groan again, louder this time.

Before she even realized what she was doing, she had dropped the folder down on the table and hurried into the steamy locker room.

Oh, God, what was wrong? Did he slip and fall? Did he land on his injured arm?

It was only when she had stepped onto the white tile floor of the shower room, the steam thick and the hiss of the water as it sprayed and the dull smacking as it hit the floor having grown louder, that she was dragged back to her senses.

Eyes exploding wide, she covered her mouth with her hands, a blush burning her face right up to her hairline. Oh, God, what was she _doing?!_

No, no, _no, __**no**__! _She started backing away. She was _not_ going to get caught being in the boy's shower room! Especially by the master of blackmail himself . . . who was only three stalls away . . . naked . . .

And moaning as if he was dying slowly.

_"Ugghn . . ."_

God, what if he _had_ fallen? What if he was trying to get up and couldn't?

She bit her lip, wringing her hands anxiously, torn between wanting to go to him, to make sure he was all right . . . and wanting to hightail it right out of there before her life was ruined right on the spot. She knew, _knew_ that if he discovered her there, he would _never_ let it go. It would be the _ultimate_ blackmail against her; something that she knew she wouldn't be able to just brush off like she had with the pictures of her in a cheerleader's outfit or when she had been in the middle of devouring a box of creampuffs in an unladylike manner.

No, this would be on a whole different level. This would be _real_ blackmail; something that could ruin her if she ever crossed him in the future.

But . . . he sounded in so much pain. How would she ever forgive herself if she just walked way, selfish for her own well-being, only to maybe learn later from Musashi or Sena that he truly _had_ collapsed and that she could have helped him when she'd had the opportunity?

_"Ughn! . . . **Shit** . . . !"_

His harsh curse startled her natural, motherly instincts into action, and before she knew it her feet were propelling her toward the shower stall he was in. When she was close enough to peer around the corner into the rectangular space, his name, sitting on the tip of her tongue, suddenly choked her.

. . . If someone had asked if she'd ever seen an X-rated film, she would have blushed and perhaps even got offended by such a private question. If someone had asked if she'd ever accidentally walked in on one of the Devilbats' players as they were dressing or undressing, she would have promptly said no.

. . . If someone had asked if she'd ever walked in on Hiruma Youichi while he was showering, his back braced against the tile wall, his head bowed and eyes squeezed shut . . . a clenched fist sliding over his . . .

Her face was burning with a mortified blush, her voice frozen in her throat. She wanted desperately to turn away; to run straight out of the clubroom; the folder be _damned!_

But she couldn't . . . no matter how horrified she was or how many times she mentally screamed at her body to _move_. She was frozen on the spot, unable to look away. Something had taken control of her muscles and her eyes, forcing her to remain where she was; forcing her to _watch_ . . .

Water, hot and soaking, weighed down the thick, blond spikes of hair; streaked down high, flushed cheekbones and dripped off the tip of a sharp, bold nose. The hot spray bounced off broad shoulders and chest. Thin streams curled around a strong, uninjured arm like bulging veins while the other arm was strapped tightly in a cast, the white plaster wrapped in a blue, waterproof sleeve as it rested in its sling. Thick ribbons of water ran fluidly through the muscled ridges of a hard, clenching abdomen, over a narrow waist, and down the length of his legs as his hips rocked in slow, deep grinds . . .

_. . . Oh . . . _

It was a breathless, feminine sound that echoed in her mind.

She was trembling slightly, her widened eyes riveted to the thick, swollen length of his . . . _cock_.

She gasped faintly, her face growing hotter. The strength started to drain from her knees as the crude term flitted about her mind, teasing her and sending tingling goosebumps along her skin; she distinctly felt her nipples harden.

Liquid heat curled hotly in her belly as she watched, fascinated, as he pumped a tight fist over the thickened length of his erection, occasionally releasing it to cup his balls, so heavy and full looking as he squeezed and rolled them.

"Oh, _**fuuuck**_," he hissed, baring his teeth. He squeezed a cruel, tight fist around the violently flushed head of his cock, jerking it viciously in fast, hard motions. His voice was harsh and strained; his breathing loud and labored; the thoroughly male, throaty sounds rising in volume.

It was as if he couldn't help himself . . . As if he was losing control . . . of . . . something . . .

And then . . . he did.

Her heart skipped a beat and her mouth formed an 'o'.

His whole body suddenly tensed, muscles visibly clenching hard and tight; his back arched off the wall and he tossed his head back; his teeth ground together as his brows creased tightly, looking as if he was in pure agony. Suddenly, a growling, guttural shout tore from his throat as a thick, white substance exploded from the swollen head of his erection, it landing stickily on the opposite wall, his hand slowing its frantic pace to pump in deep, tight strokes. His chest worked as he labored in breath, like he had just finished running two miles, and his body fell back against the wall in abrupt exhaustion.

Her mouth had gone completely dry, having been slightly ajar as she'd watched the whole scene. She became faintly aware of how achingly stiff her nipples were and that the area between her thighs was throbbing with heat, her panties feeling uncomfortably damp.

It was only when he pulled his hand from the curiously softening flesh and sighed a light curse that she fully comprehended what had happened; what he did, what she did, what she _saw_, _who_ she sawing doing it . . .

She was standing in the middle of the boy's shower room, her clothes heavy from the steam of the hot water. The Devilbat's notorious quarterback was naked and soaking right in front of her, and she had just witnessed him . . .

_Devilbat's notorious quarterback . . . Devilbats . . . quarterback. . . _

_**Hiruma**__._

The realization of the terrible danger she was in, the danger of humiliation and blackmail, had her snapping a hand to her mouth in silent horror. Heart pounding, crystal-blue eyes wide, she slowly started backing out of sight, her senses straining, listening for any sound that would indicate that he'd noticed he wasn't alone.

All the while, she repeated a mantra of reassurance in her mind, telling herself that it would be fine; he wouldn't catch her. He would not know that she had just watched him in a very private, vulnerable moment; a moment that had affected her more than she wished it had.

She was guilty of _voyeurism_ . . . but he would not know. He would _never __**ever **_know.

Snatching up the folder as she snuck out, she quickly and quietly slid the door shut again, and when she made sure everything was in place, she turned and bolted.

No matter how many times she tried to reassure herself, she knew deep down that she was just telling herself lies.

He would know_._ Oh, God, he would _know._

He made it his _business_ to know; made it his business to know _everything_ that went on around him. He was a master at gathering serious and sometimes even devastating blackmail on anyone and _everyone_.

Except her. Before, she used to take pride in knowing that he couldn't get any dirt on her because she was a _good_ girl. She took satisfaction in knowing that the best blackmail he could get of her was simple, slightly embarrassing things; things that wouldn't actually haunt her for the rest of her life had the information fall into the wrong hands.

Or more specifically . . . Hiruma's.

But that was all over now.

Somehow, somewhere, there was going to be the smallest detail that would tell him everything and he would know. He would know and he would distribute the information immediately around the school.

Part of her was confident that it would take more than just words from the mouth of the Devil himself to convince others of what she had done . . . but her heart sank, remembering that she was dealing with _Hiruma._ He always had evidence to back up his words . . . He never bluffed about his blackmail . . .

She felt hot tears sting the corner of her eyes as she ran. The folder she had clutched to her chest felt heavy. His proof that she'd been there was the folder he would find missing . . .

The wind felt like cool, caressing fingers, brushing over her cheeks and neck as her lungs labored to keep up with her pounding heart.

She had only wanted to _help_ . . . she had thought he was _hurt_ . . . she didn't _know_ . . .

He would never believe her . . .


	6. Distraction XXIII: Bitter Taste

**Title: **Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Profanity  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge on the Hiruma/Mamori pairing.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Some angsty stuff, taken off the "what if" question. _What if_ . . . the Devilbats hadn't won?

* * *

**Distraction XXIII: Bitter Taste**

It was like a bitter taste on her tongue, watching the powerfully intelligent, psychotically optimistic, and composed Hiruma rip the locker room a part. It was bitter, causing hot tears to well up in her eyes; it was bitter, causing her hand to tremble as she brought it to her mouth.

They had just lost to the Oujou White Knights . . . by a single point.

The ever-sought-for dream of playing in Christmas Bowl was shattered.

_Hiruma_ was shattered.

_"Fuck, fuck, **fuck!**" _Each harsh, shouted curse was accented with a banging kick or punch against a locker door.

He was like a wild animal, attacking anything in his path as he stalked around the enclosed room, going around and around, passing her for the two-dozenth, the scent of rain and sweat and mud and grass brushing under her nose as the air was violently shoved around.

She could feel her heart breaking for him, aware that she couldn't possibly comprehend the ripping disappointment and utter rage he was expressing.

But she could sense something else in the way he moved; could hear it in his voice.

He hated himself. He didn't blame anyone but himself for their defeat. He knew they had done their best, pushing themselves to their physical and mental limitations. But it hadn't been enough. And he blamed himself.

He saw himself as a failure; a failure to his friends, his team, his dream; a failure as a leader, as a captain, as a quarterback. He loathed himself.

And she couldn't stand it.

He was a hero. They were _all_ heroes. They were a team that had been underestimated time and time again because of the lack of experienced players and game time. Their victories were always dismissed as luck and miracles. But they proved everyone wrong in the end; proved to the world that it took more than just training and discipline to win – it took heart and spirit and determination and willpower. It took the friendship and support of everyone else on the team. It took the need to believe that nothing was ever over until it was truly over.

Hot tears threatened to spill over and she fought against the scalding, thick lump in her throat; fought against the urge to vocally sob her misery at seeing him like this.

No one else was beating themselves up so horribly like he was.

It wasn't until she found herself standing right next to him that she realized she had moved. She listened to and watched him vent the ugly, dark emotions on the victimized lockers in front of him, his fists slamming over and over against the gray steel, leaving deep dents in the wake of his vicious onslaught.

It was only when she noticed the cuts, gaping and bleeding, on his knuckles that she knew he finally needed to stop.

She wordlessly brought a small hand up and rested it on his naked bicep, the muscles beneath the warm skin hard and toned from the demands required to be a quarterback. For a moment, he didn't seem to realize she had touched him, continuing to spit vulgarities and pound away on the yielding locker doors.

But it didn't discourage her. He needed her; she knew he did. He needed her need to soothe the hurt. Even though everything else screamed _'Danger! Stay away!', _she knew that if she walked away now – if she left him to himself like his violent body language ordered her to – it would only make things worse . . .

She quietly ducked under his arm and squeezed herself in between his towering body, broadened by bulk of his protective gear, and the pulverized locker doors, before she slid her arms around his tapered waist, bringing her smaller, softer body flush against his, not caring that he was wet and muddy from the earlier storm. She rested her cheek on his heaving chest.

His heart was pounding out an angry, adrenaline-induced rhythm and she tightened her arms around him, squeezing her eyes shut against the hot sting of her tears, desperately fighting the urge to let them fall. Someone had to be strong here, and it wasn't going to be Hiruma.

There was a last, ringing clang of flesh meeting metal with ruthless force . . . and then all was quiet, the harsh, ragged breathing above her the only sound left in the dreary, dim locker room.

She glanced up, swallowing hard against the burning lump in her throat, when she felt his muscles drain themselves of the back-breaking tension and rigidity, and felt him grow heavier in her arms when he leaned his defeated weight into her.

Above her, he had his arms folded and braced against the deeply dented lockers, half his face buried against them. All she could see in the play of shadows and dim light was the grim frown turning down his lips.

It was over . . .


	7. Distraction XXVI: Headache

**Title: **Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity; Pervertedness  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge on the Hiruma/Mamori pairing.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Meh, I drew a blank this. Tell me if you think Hiruma is OOC. Don't really like writing from his POV. And don't worry, the second part to "Running Water" is almost finished!

* * *

**Distraction XXVI: Headache**

He slowly exhaled into his gum. It expanded past his lips, forming a pallid-blue, sticky elastic bubble that ceased growth just beneath dark-lashed, emerald green eyes. The feline-like irises were lazily fixated on the small rear moving to and fro on the other side of the clubroom. It was small and heart-shaped and female, was cupped appreciatively in the tight, form-fitting capris pants that ran down to shape long, toned thighs and stopped just above slender, fair-skinned calves.

_'Damn,'_ he thought absently, a sharp eyebrow lifting as he idly started a new bubble when the previous popped.

He had to admit, the fucking woman had a nice figure, which surprise the shit out of him what with the amount of creampuffs she devoured on a near daily basis.

He leaned back slowly, his gaze never leaving the object of its intense attention, his chair tilting back, until it was balancing all his weight on its back legs. He threaded his fingers together and rested them on his chest, and he kicked his own legs up onto the roulette table, taking in the view.

She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing something fierce off the floor near the bookshelves, clearly unaware that the position was giving his eyes something worth analyzing thoroughly.

She was humming something, too. He probably could have figured out what it was had she not been doing it so off-key, and he was seriously tempted to make a snide remark on it, just to piss her off.

He felt a little, devious smirk tug at his lips as his bubble popped again.

Yeah, he liked it when she got on his ass about random shit; liked that feistiness.

Speaking of which.

He rubbed the back of his head, finding the small knot forming there and grimaced slightly, feeling that it was still tender. It was the result a hard smack across the head from yesterday. Fuck, it'd given him such a headache afterwards, too.

Letting his hand fall away, he tilted his head to the side a little, taking in the view from a different angle.

Yeah, he was very much aware of their relationship and how it had evolved. First, she'd been the harpy who had the dick and balls to stand up to everything he did; from his extortion abilities, to his artillery, to how he wore his school uniform.

Now she was an important member to his team, supporting him as the commander he rightfully was as well as keeping his ass in line whenever he got a little too . . . _enthused_ about things.

He lifted his hand again and studied it.

Broad-palmed. Tapered, long-boned fingers. Narrow but solid, strong wrist.

He glanced back at the tight, female butt just _begging_ him to . . .

. . . His shark grin was the product of unholy thoughts and wicked things as he wordlessly let the chair drop back down onto all fours before getting up and walking silently up to his team's motherly manager, his hand lifted and fingers splayed wide, looking as if it were a brandished weapon.

Perhaps it was high time that their relationship evolved another step . . .

* * *

OMAKE:

"Sena . . . is . . . that a hand print on Hiruma-senpai's face?" Monta hissed into his ear, gawking ahead of him.

He turned around, blinking. Sure enough, on the other end of the field, talking to Musashi, was their deadly outrageous captain, and as clear as day, there was a perfectly formed, red imprint of a hand across his cheek.

"Keh heh," Monta snickered, grinning as gave an elbow nudge to his side, "Wonder what happened, eh, Sena?

"Yeah . . . ," he murmured, distracted the sudden memory from earlier, when he'd nearly been bowled over by Mamori when she had stormed out of the clubroom with him just on the other side, her cheeks pink and her eyes spitting fire, one of her hands rubbing one side of her bottom as she stalked by . . .

"Oi, Sena, you okay?" Monta suddenly asked, staring at him curiously.

He silently nodded, his eyes nearly bulging.


	8. Distraction XXII: Enticing Scent

**Title: **Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **MA  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity; Brief Sexual Content  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge on the Hiruma/Mamori pairing.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Okay, so I cut ths one short 'cause I'm tired of messing with it. Decided the rest of this will continue with the third installment. WARNING: There's _some_ sexual content in this, but it's, like, seriously brief.

* * *

**Distraction XXII: Enticing Scent (Running Water, Part II)**

A small, wry smirk crossed his lips and he stepped under the hot spray of the shower, sighing heavily as he pushed his long fingers through the waterlogged spikes of his bleached hair.

Rinsed, muscles relaxed from the heated water, and the pressure of his thoughts reduced to quiet nothings, he lazily smacked the water dials, spinning them until they tightened and closed off the valves.

"Fuckin' dick," he yawned, stepping out of the shower stall.

And right into an unseen wall of peaches.

He reared back, blinking in surprise at the abrupt attack of the sweet, fruity scent.

"The hell . . . ?" he growled, his nose wrinkling as he irritably waved a hand around, batting away the invisible assault before walking through it.

Unabashedly nude and dripping, he strolled over to the white towel lying across the countertop and picked it up. He set about the task of drying himself, a difficult feat with only one hand. It never failed to piss him off in the end; it took twice as long and he never fully got his back dried.

"Tch," he grumbled, roughly scrubbing his hair.

If there was ever a time he needed fucking Anezaki's mothering help, it would be to assist him in drying himself off properly.

Anezaki.

He yanked the towel from his head frustratedly and glared at himself in the mirror's reflection, his eyes narrowed and mouth pulled into a hard frown, spiky blond hair going every which way in dishevelment.

Damn woman; always on his fucking mind. Pissed him off.

He knew he needed to focus all his attention on the team, to prepare them up till the last second before the Christmas Bowl, but god_damn_, she always managed to make it to the forefront of his mind! What with her fuckin' pink mouth, those fuckin' blue eyes, those long thighs . . . tiny fuckin' waist . . . damn good tits . . .

His cock gave a hungry twitch, his blood thickening in his veins as he reveled in the image of Miss Goody-Goody giving into his corruption . . .

"Fuck . . . I need to get laid," he growled irritably, tiredly scratching the back of his head as he sneered down at his newly lifted erection. And what he wouldn't enjoy more than to have Anezaki get rid of the problem for him . . . preferably on her knees, wrists cuffed behind her back, all forcibly submissive and ready to exploit; to do whatever he wanted . . .

A vivid, heatedly sexually image exploded up into his mind: his hard cock pumping in and out of that small, hot mouth, one of his hands clenched in her soft, brown hair, holding her still as he greedily fucked her throat . . . those pouting pink lips stretched around his thickened width as she hungrily sucked him off . . .

He grunted with disgust when his cock began to throb.

Moodily, he tossed the towel back down on the sink and stalked impatiently out of the shower room.

Yeah . . . he _really_ needed to get laid.

* * *

"_Kekeke_, you look like shit, fucking manager."

Those were the very first words out of his mouth after having slammed open the clubhouse door, the ever dramatization marking his arrival.

She tensed at his taunting, offhanded remark, her grip tightening on the playbook as she fought against the quick rise of a blush and the sharp, hot poke of irritation.

It was everything she could do to not look at any of the team members, especially the Devil himself when he started lurking around, barking orders and announcements. She could feel everyone's curious gazes on her, and she realized then that they, too, had noticed her unkempt appearance. But she didn't acknowledge any of them; instead, she stared determinedly at the 'x's and 'o's arranging the Shotgun formation on the page.

She already knew she looked a sight; she didn't need Hiruma's input to confirm it.

She'd found out that morning, much to her dismay, that no amount of makeup would cover up the dark, sunken circles under her eyes, nor could it give her pallid cheeks a healthier looking color. Ever her hair was frizzy and slightly tousled.

All because she hadn't gotten an _ounce_ of sleep the night before. If wasn't the terrible paranoia, distress, and fright of what she would expect to see or hear from Hiruma that kept her up, if was the darkly passionate images in her dreams . . .

A certain cruel, electric-blond extortionist trailing hot, biting kisses down her neck . . . long fingers rolling and pinching her hardened nipples . . . strong, hard thighs knelt between her softer ones, forcing them open and wide . . . a roughened hand delved deep inside her tiny panties . . . his voice, so throaty and raspy . . . hissing dark, erotic threats . . . telling of the things he was going to do to her; what he was going to force _her_ to do to _him_ . . .

She swallowed hard, her mouth having gone dry as her heart pounded in her ears. Oh, God, what was she going to do? Was she now going to be haunted every night by dreams of sexual touches and words by the most undesirable man ever to grace her life?

Her only saving grace was that he clearly didn't know about her . . . _seeing_ him . . .

She hadn't seen any signs or posters of blackmail, nor heard any rumors or seen any odd looks sent in her direction. All day, she went on without any confrontation or hint that her innocent misdeed had been acknowledged by the school's personal demon. So this was clearly a sign he didn't know . . . right?

And even now, after school and stuck in a room with him, he hadn't said anything about it, neither bluntly, cryptically, or otherwise.

He hadn't even brought up anything about the folder. Somehow, he must have missed that she had left it last night, so she basically hadn't left any proof of her being in the clubhouse when she took back.

Which meant he didn't know.

He _didn't_ know.

Which meant he would _never_ know!

Her mind was reeling and her heart was pounding with such excited relief that she didn't even notice that she was being stalked from behind.

_"Fuckin' manager!"_

Right in her ear.

She shrieked, startled, and nearly tossed the playbook over her head as she sat up immediately. She shot the devious blond a frightened look, leaning as far away from his shark-toothed grin as possible. For one wild moment she thought she had somehow been found out because he read her mind.

His face-splitting grin fell into a sly, satisfied smirk before straightening up again, towering over her easily. Even without the bulk of the protective gear beneath his red-and-white jersey to make him appear larger, he still felt overwhelmingly imposing. Even the vulnerable sight of his arm still encased in a thick cast and resting in the plain white sling did nothing to take away from the dark intimidation he seemed to effortlessly exude.

_"G_et your head out of your ass, damn mother, and pay attention," he drawled as rounded to the other side of the table, unknowingly doing her a favor by giving her his back when he turned to face everyone.

She exhaled the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding and bit her lip, eyeing the playbook page. She mentally reprimanded herself. She _needed_ to relax . . . or he was going to start suspecting something . . .

"And shitty goatee, stop dicking around with that fucking –"

She looked up when the vulgar order was abruptly dropped and saw his shoulders visibly tensing beneath his red-and-white jersey. Her heart started to pound again as she sensed something immediately wrong. The foreboding feeling only strengthened when he wordlessly and deeply inhaled the air around him.

Being that he stood in front of the table, all she could see was his tall, broad-shouldered back. His face was completely turned away, even when he suddenly cocked the gleaming black _AK-47 Assault Rifle_ that'd previously been braced against his shoulder and started firing into the ceiling, the sound explosive and violent, equal to his voice.

_"GET ONTO THE DAMN FIELD, FUCKING BRATS!"_

And with bewildered and terrified yelps they did so, evacuating the clubroom in one massive flood of Devilbat colors. Their departure made the room seem suddenly larger.

But something in the way Hiruma just remained in the same spot, not chasing them out as he slowly lowered his weapon, caused a sickening chill brush over her skin. Something was wrong . . . and being alone with him was only making the feeling worse. She needed to get out to the others.

Quickly grabbing up her notebooks and play sketches, she shot up from her chair and was near to bolting across the room . . . when she looked up to see Hiruma giving the door a vicious yank, slamming it closed with a loud bang. Dread settled like dead weight in her belly when he made a show turning the bolt lock until it landed with a resounding _clack_.

_'Oh, please, no . . .'_ she mentally whispered, her eyes wide with rising panic. She backed up until the edge of the table bumped up against her bottom.

"So . . ."

She stiffened, the tone of his voice sending a bout of anxiety crawling up her spine. It was low and cool; controlled.

". . . You enjoy the fucking show?"


	9. Distraction XXIV: Arguments

**Title: **Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge on the Hiruma/Mamori pairing.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** LAWL! I give you a crappy pieced together one-shot for Valentine's Day!

* * *

**Distraction XXIV: Arguments**

They were at it again.

And it looked and sounded even more violent than the day before's.

Sena shook, terrified, in a corner of the clubhouse, watching as his mothering manager stood, toe-to-toe, with his bleach-blond captain, screaming. And the aforementioned was raging back, looking just as deadly, if not deadlier with his white-knuckled grip on his gleaming black assault rifle, as her.

If it hadn't always seemed like they were going to jump at each other and start clawing one another's throat out, it could been seen as hilarious and ridiculous the things that started the whole ordeals.

Monday, it'd been on how he wore his uniform. Tuesday, it was on her cleaning skills. Wednesday, on his cursing. Thursday, over her nagging. Friday, his excessive gum-chewing.

Today, it was clearly on a missing creampuff.

_"I said I don't fucking have it!"_

_"Then **where** is it?! **Huh**? It didn't just walk off, you jerk!"_

_"The fucking hell should I know what happened to it? Maybe you fucking horked it down like you do everything else!"_

_"**Excuse **me?! Are you saying I'm **fat**?"_

_"Well, you sure as hell ain't getting **thinner** by stuffing your face with all those fucking pastries. Don't you fucking exercise? You're starting to make the damn fatty look skinny!"_

_"Oh, and you're the one to talk about weight, right? You look like you **need** a few pastries in you!"_

_"Shit, and I'd probably do it if I didn't think you'd eat my fucking hand first!"_

Sena shuddered and drew closer to the towering, muscular figure of the team's kicker. He glanced up at the darkly-tanned man, whispering behind a hand, "_Ano_ . . . what's wrong with them . . . ? They've never been like this before. And it feels like it's getting worse, too . . ."

The kicker responded by smirking faintly, picking at his ear, his voice deep and calm as he spoke. "Don't you know what today is?"

He blinked, dropping his hand slowly. Today?

He glanced around, trying to find some sort of hint of what Musashi was implying. When he didn't, he looked back up, murmuring an answer he knew wasn't correct, but it was the best he could do. "Um . . . February the fourteenth . . . ?"

"Valentine's Day."

His eyes widened in sudden revelation. Oh, that's right! It _was_ Valentine's! How could he have forgotten? Well . . . that would definitely explain the chocolates Suzuna had given him earlier, as well as the bottle of protein tablets Shin had randomly . . .

He froze.

. . . Had – had Shin given him a Valentine's gift?!

"Mmm, I think today has a lot to do with all the fights this week. All that sexual tension has clearly reached its breaking-point . . . ," the older looking second-year observed lightly, still idly picking at his ear.

_"Kekeke, did you just curse, fucking disciplinarian-and-all-around-innocent-angel? What a fucking hypocrite! I think I'll just put this in my little notebook here an–" _

**_SMACK!_**

". . . And it just broke."

Sena gawked, part him still freaking out over Shin's gift while the other part was stunned and horrified by the sight of his mothering friend striking Hiruma right across the face with an open hand. The slap silenced the quarterback extortionist immediately, the force of it having snapped his head to the side as the Devil's Notebook fell from his fingers.

_"Put **that **__in your little notebook, you – you bully!"_

He squeaked and shot behind Musashi, getting out of the way just in time when she pivoted on her heel and stormed past, her shoulders stiff and her fists clenched angrily at her sides, a sound of aggravation marking her departure as she stomped out the door.

Swallowing, he peeked out from behind the safety of Musashi's heavier frame, peering cautiously over at his captain. He felt a chill crawl up his spine seeing Hiruma still standing in the same position, eerily silent.

Then a sense of danger seemed to thicken the air when his hand slowly curled into a tight, slightly trembling fist.

His heart jumped in fright when his spiky-haired senpai suddenly turned toward the door, slamming the weight of his _AK-47_ down on the table with a loud _bang_, the power of the action actually shoving the table back a few inches.

When his captain stalked by, he shivered and shrank deeper behind Musashi, terrified by the calm, dark rage on those sharp, fair-skinned features, the emotion as naked as the brightening red mark on his cheek, and he could have sworn he saw something almost cruel and lethal glint in his emerald-green eyes before he disappeared outside.

Almost immediately after his exit there was a shriek of outrage . . . and then abrupt silence.

"Mamori-neechan!" he gasped, jumping toward the door, his heart pounding in dread. He'd never seen Hiruma so angry before; what was he going to do to her? Would he actually hurt her? He didn't want to believe it – despite all the things he did, it never crossed his mind that Hiruma might actually be capable of physical harm . . . but . . . if he did, he would stop him! No one, not even someone he respected and feared so utterly, was going to lay a hand on her!

But he stopped dead at the threshold, expecting to see some form of a physical fight on the vacated, dusty school grounds. Instead, his mouth fell open and his eyes bulged, watching just in time to see his tall, lean senpai shift Mamori's captured wrists into one, long-fingered hand and yank her roughly against his body, his other hand wrapping calmly around the front of her slender neck.

All the while kissing her. Hard. Until she finally stopped struggling.

He stuttered, his overwhelmed mind short-circuiting as it tried to process what he was seeing.

And just when he saw her lean into him and slowly lift up onto her tippy-toes . . . the door slid closed with a secured _click_, blocking out the astounding sight.

"That's enough of that. Give them some privacy now. They deserve it."

He continued to gape, godsmacked, at the door, unable to do anything but nod wordlessly . . .


	10. Theme XXXIII: Seeing Red

**Title:** Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **A collection of drabbles, one-shots, and mini-stories dedicated to the Hiruma/Mamori pairing. Based on the "100 Themes" and LiveJournal's "30 Distractions" challenges.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Theme XXXIII: Seeing Red**

A time-out had been called.

Everyone on the team removed their helmets as they walked off the field and toward the bench currently being vacated by their spiky-haired captain, their motherly manager already there next to him. Even as they surrounded the bench, intensely listening to him as he went over a plan, they had all taken a bit of notice on the rather deep split at the corner of his mouth. It was bleeding thickly, a couple of crimson droplets dripping off the narrow angle of his chin to blend in with the red of his uniform.

It had been gut-clenching, watching the violently powerful Agon force their fearless commander into a face-planting against ground. If he hadn't had the faceguard to protect him, the damage would have been much worse: a broken nose . . . maybe chipped or broken teeth . . . deep contusions . . .

But even as they listened to him bark out orders, they ended up getting distracted . . . by Mamori's small, delicate hand lifting into view, quietly catching the uninjured side of his face, restraining him from whipping his head around as he continued to spit vulgarity-sweetened instructions at them.

"Fuckin' fatty, I want you to hold that damn line, even if you die! Fuckin' Huh-Huh Brothers and fatty junior, you better help him or I'm gonna send you straight to Hell! And you, you damn shrimps –" his heated tirade continued on, but they didn't hear him. None of them did. They couldn't.

They were too stunned by the scene calmly going on in front of them. Their hellish leader was _actually_ being oblivious to Mamori's hand gently cupping the sharp angle of his jaw, holding him still as she carefully dabbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the tiny wound in his lip.

They couldn't believe he didn't notice . . . especially when she then moved her hand slightly, her thumb crossing over to press the fluffy medical ball against the cut, holding it there firmly. It restricted most of the movement of his jaw as he spoke, causing his words to sound muffled, and yet he was still unperturbed.

They blinked.

She brought a dampened cloth to his face and started to gently wipe away the thin streak of blood from his jaw, all the while she was paid no mind.

" – Got it, you damn brats?" he shouted, startling them back to attention.

"Y-Yeah!" they all nervously replied in unison.

"'Yeah'?" he cooed sweetly, his emerald-green eyes glinting dangerously. He stood up just as the blood-smeared cotton was pulled away from his mouth. "Then why aren't you on the fuckin' field?! _GET MOVIN'!"_

Tossing his helmet back on and whipping out a gleaming, polished shotgun, he grinned evilly. "YA-HA!"

With cries of terror they were chased back onto the field, shotgun shells exploding into the sky and Hiruma cackling like a mad jackal as he jogged after them.

The whistle blew, signaling the end of the time-out. Everyone fell into their appointed positions.

Hidden behind the huge, bulky mass of Kurita and with his other teammates' backs faced toward him, no one witnessed the narrow, pink tongue darting out to causally slide over the cleaned cut.


	11. Theme LXXXVIII: Possession

**Title:** Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **None  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **A collection of drabbles, one-shots, and mini-stories dedicated to the Hiruma/Mamori pairing. Based on the "100 Themes" and LiveJournal's "30 Distractions" challenges.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Theme LXXXVIII: Possession**

He must have rubbed a little of himself off on her or something like it . . . because she was becoming increasingly aware of how immature and unintentionally rude people were.

She couldn't understand why everyone was making such a big deal out of it.

She frowned a little when she passed another group of gaping students in the hall. She fought the violent urge to just go back and heatedly demand what they found so shocking about seeing her walking around in Hiruma's letterman jacket.

It wasn't as if they were an item or anything.

It had been her fault, after all, having left her Devilbat-crimson letterman jacket in the clubroom overnight. But it _hadn't_ been her fault that someone had taken it, something which she had found out later that morning.

The disappointment and crushing guilt of having already lost her piece of the gift that Hiruma had uncharacteristically given everyone on the team had been nothing compared to the total astonishment she'd felt when the vulgar, spiky-haired captain in question had all but thrown his own, jet-black one at her rather than give her grief like she had first anticipated.

Still, she hadn't been able to question the unusual thoughtfulness at the time, mostly because he had left there after . . . but also because she wasn't about pass up the warmth the jacket offered. She hadn't brought anything extremely warm to wear that morning, having already assumed that her jacket was going to be there to greet her when she arrived at the clubhouse.

As she made her way out the school doors and down the steps, she huddled deeper into the two-sizes-too-large jacket, bracing herself against the biting cold of the winter air, her sleeve-engulfed hands pulling the thick collar closer around her face.

She felt a light shiver brush down her spine when she accidentally inhaled, for the umpteenth time that day, the tantalizingly spicy scent of cologne and utter maleness. A light, warm flush rose into her cheeks.

She really needed to find Hiruma and return the jacket to him.

A grateful smile pulled at her lips when she neared the clubhouse, seeing the team's kicker dressed in his work clothes and currently moving and stacking heavy bags of cement mix near some planks of wood.

"Musashi-kun, do you know where Hiruma-kun is?" she questioned, feeling hopeful.

"Mm?" The well-built carpenter looked up at her as he seemingly effortlessly hefted another large bag up onto a shoulder. "Sorry, Anezaki-chan, but I haven't seen him." He paused, his chocolate-brown eyes studying her and the jacket curiously.

She felt a small glare creeping into her eyes when she saw a light smirk cross his darkly-tanned features. "Don't you start, Musashi-san. I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. He just let me borrow it because I can't find mine at the moment. As soon as I find him, I'll be more the willing to give it back. _Mou_, it causes just as much trouble as he does."

She spun on her heel and stalked back in the direction she came, ignoring the sound behind her that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, and went on a search for the other third of the original Devilbat trio.

* * *

He chuckled deeply, watching her storm off. It was a rather cute sight, seeing the jet-black jacket overly large on her petite frame, the bottom stopping mid-thigh and the sleeves having swallowed her arms completely.

"Heh. Nice," he murmured, a full smirk stretched across his face as he idly picked at his ear, lazily regarding the large, crimson lettering spelling out _Hiruma Youichi_ across her back.

The spiky-haired blond couldn't have made his possession any clearer than if he had had the manufacture add on _" 's "_.

He suspected that the whole thing had been planned out from the very beginning.

And he pitied the future souls who didn't catch the message as quickly as he had.


	12. Theme I: Introduction

**Title:** Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **A collection of drabbles, one-shots, and mini-stories dedicated to the Hiruma/Mamori pairing. Based on the "100 Themes" and LiveJournal's "30 Distractions" challenges.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Theme I: Introduction**

"Stop it!"

_"Kekeke!"_

"Stop it! Gosh, why are you being so stupid?"

She scowled at the boy with spiky, death-black hair and strangely-angled, deep green eyes. He flashed her another wicked grin . . . and then attacked her face again with the feather. She shrieked angrily, again batting a hand at the offensive object as it tickled her cheek and ear.

"Stop it!" she shouted again, her temper flaring higher. They were sitting in the sandbox together near the back of the school's play yard, for the most part ignored by the other children who played at the swings and monkey bars or played games like Tag and Hide n' Go Seek.

"No way," he taunted, smirking. "You're way too much fun to mess with, girl."

"My _name_ is Mamori, thank you very much," she snapped, glowering at him as she struggled against the urge to smack him upside the head with her little plastic shovel.

"Tch, 'Mamori', huh? Like a damn _o-mamori?_ You were named after a shitty protective charm?"

She gasped, staring at him wide-eyed. "Don't use such bad words! And don't make fun of my name!"

She pursed her lips when he rolled his eyes and looked down at the sand, his hand scooping up the fine grains and letting them fall smoothly through his fingers.

"I'm not. It's kinda, I dunno, fitting now that I think about it. I see you defending that weak kid nearly every day."

Despite feeling a little flattered by the strange kid's words, she immediately felt her protective, motherly instincts raise its head when he spoke the rest and she clenched her small fist around her shovel's handle, her eyes narrowing. "Don't you _dare _make fun of Sena."

He suddenly grinned at her, baring his shark-like teeth again. His eyes locked with hers and she was mildly startled by the quiet, almost approving look in them. But then he continued to speak, his tone mocking her. "_Ho-o?_ Or what? Gunna beat me up, too, damn girl?"

She scrunched her nose and tilted her up chin stubbornly. "Don't cuss! And don't call me that!" And then suddenly the feather tickled her face again. "Ack! _**STOP IT!**__"_

_"Kekeke!"_

* * *

_"Stop it!"_

_"Kekeke!"_

_"Mou, you're so immature, Hiruma-kun. Ack! __**STOP IT!**__"_

Musashi glanced dryly over his morning newspaper, a dark eyebrow arched high. Across the roulette table sat two steaming mugs of coffee, some homework sheets and game plans strewn about, an open laptop, and the recent issue of _Football Monthly_. Behind those sat a thoroughly harassed-looking manager who was glaring heatedly at the bleach-blond quarterback lounging back lazily next to her, his elbow braced on the table and his cheek resting in his hand as he grinned back at her evilly.

When she reluctantly turned her attention back to her work, he lifted his arm . . . and assaulted her cheek with a feather.

She jerked away and whipped her head at him, her face bright with a flush of agitation. "_Stop it!"_

Musashi's other eyebrow rose as he continued to watch them quietly. The pierced extortionist cackled madly, his face-splitting grin widening impossibly more.

"Fucking make me, shitty manager."

"Don't curse, Hiruma-kun! And for the last time, _don't call me things like that!"_

Sighing, he shook out the wrinkles in his paper and went back to reading, or at least tried to as Hiruma continued to rile Mamori with a mere feather.

Seriously. Was it really that difficult to just man up and ask her out?


	13. Theme XXXIX: Dark

**Title:** Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **M  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity; Sexual Implications  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **A collection of drabbles, one-shots, and mini-stories dedicated to the Hiruma/Mamori pairing. Based on the "100 Themes" and LiveJournal's "30 Distractions" challenges.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Part one of a two-part mini-plot. Implied things. You've been warned. :]

* * *

**Theme XXXIX: Dark**

She was glad she'd turned the light off a while ago. If she hadn't, she knew she would have lost all the scandalous nerve she'd managed to gather. The cool darkness of her room felt like a security blanket, hiding her; providing invisibility from the world, from her room . . . from herself. She could see nothing . . . but she heard everything. The proper, rule-abiding girl that she was supposed to be was screaming in utter horror at what she was doing. Her cheeks were burning from a merciless blush as her inner-disciplinarian was weeping and begging her to hang up the phone. It tried to remind her of who she was – what she stood for.

Its voice was drowned out by the male one hissing an order from the other end of the line.

_"Do it."_

"Youichi, I . . ." she murmured, chewing on her lip as she hesitated, her embarrassment managing to triumph over her inner-wanton. Could she really do this? Could she do this with _him? _God, how could she trust him to keep it just between them when it was over? What would be the consequences? Would it end up a routine thing if it went well?

_"God **damnit**, Anezaki! Stop playing fucking games with me. It's starting to piss me off. You going to do this or **not**?"_

"Y - ! No! I mean - !" She made a sound of pure frustration. Gripping the phone tighter in her slightly clammy hand, she glared at her dark ceiling with a sense of forced determination. "Yes. Yes, I am. Just . . . don't be so . . . aggressive! I haven't done this before and I'm . . . and _you_ . . ."

The hard force in her voice had trailed off into a weak, pitiful murmur. Her bravado was all bluff. She couldn't do this. What if she didn't do something right? What if he laughed and poked fun at her because of it? Had _he_ even done it before?

_"Kekeke . . ."_ the cackle was a bit raspy, and even sounded breathless, but it didn't carry the taunting tone it usually did. _"I'm fuckin' hard as a rock, Anezaki, and damn near done with you being a chicken-shit. You fucking hung up on me the last three times. You going to do it fourth? If so, I'd really fucking like it if you'd tell me first. I don't like being left fucking literally high and dry."_

She played with the hem of her delicate, white nightie, trying to ignore the ugly guilt rising up in her. It was true; she had done that . . . but it wasn't as if she hadn't had a reason! She'd been scared; _he_ scared her, all that self-confidence and arrogance . . .

But . . . she really could only blame the first time on him . . . They'd been studying together via phone on their college exit exams. It'd dragged well into the night because of their tendencies to get sidetracked and go off-topic, such as her complaints about some of her teachers; him, about a slow shipment of highly-purchased heavy artillery.

At one point, while he'd been gleefully boasting about his new _M1A1 Abrams Main Battle Tank_, she had stretched. It'd felt so wonderfully delicious after having been lounging on her bed in the same position for nearly an hour. The sensations of tension draining from her muscles and her stiff joints popping had dragged a long, sighing little moan from her lips.

She remembered the abrupt stop of words on the other end. When she had worriedly asked if he was still there and if everything was all right, there'd been a long pause before he had spoken in a soft, oddly husky voice, _"Do that again."_

She knew what phone sex was because of her friends would talk about it. A partnership-masturbation stimulated by only sounds, words, and one's own imagination. Not to mention, it was one of the safest methods of sex other than cybersex.

But having phone sex with Hiruma was . . . a very large leap. In the full year that she'd been with him, they'd never really gone beyond anything other than a few stolen kisses, and even _those_ had been hard to come by seeing as they hardly saw each other. He was too caught up in his college football; she, her academics. He had to be captain, quarterback, coach _and_ manager because he supposedly couldn't find anyone competent enough to take over the lattermost two, and despite all his usual aggressive tactics to get her to work for him like she had in high school, she just couldn't do it. She'd taken on so many classes, not to mention as a student teacher back at Deimon High, that she was lucky she could even manage a normal, daily routine. By the end of the day they were so beat that it was only their hours-long conversations over the phone that kept their relationship pieced together.

_"Last time or I'm quitting this game, got it?"_

She swallowed hard, her mouth having gone dry_. _She could hear the weariness in his tone now.

_". . . Open your damn legs."_


	14. Theme XLV: Heart Song

**Title:** Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Profanity  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **A collection of drabbles, one-shots, and mini-stories dedicated to the Hiruma/Mamori pairing. Based on the "100 Themes" and LiveJournal's "30 Distractions" challenges.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** 'Cause I react like she does.

* * *

**Theme XLV: Heart Song**

If someone asked him if he had a soft spot for anyone, he would laugh his ass off, just like he had when that fucking reporter had asked if he loved anything else other than football.

Love? He didn't love. Hell, he didn't even _love_ football. He just enjoyed it. He _enjoyed_ the adrenaline rush and brain stimulation; he _enjoyed _seeing the expressions on the opposing team when they scored the first points; he _enjoyed_ hearing the fans screaming their cheers; he _enjoyed_ gambling with his plays; he _enjoyed_ winning.

But he didn't love it. He didn't love anything.

After all, the fuck would 'love' get him in life? It wouldn't give him his blackmail. It wouldn't get his shipments of artillery delivered any sooner. It wouldn't give him much needed touchdowns. It wouldn't bring him the Christmas Bowl victory.

Perhaps sex?

Nah. One didn't have to love to have sex.

Love was nothing but a bullshit concept that the media simply wrapped up in pink frills and rainbows in order to deceive the public into believing that it was the best thing that could ever happen to a person. Truth was, love was just complicated and stressful, stole away one's common sense and intelligence, and it brought only misery and disappointment in the end.

_"Ah! Y-You damn __**bastard**__!"_

He froze, his fingers halting over his laptop's keyboard.

A crushing, still silence fell over the room.

They all watched the kind, motherly manager glance, horrified, over her shoulder, her bright blue eyes wide in shock as she held her injured finger to her chest, her other hand clamped over her mouth.

"M-Mamori-neechan!" stuttered a startled Sena, gawking at her along with Monta and the Huh-Huh Brothers.

"I-I'm sorry! It just . . . flew out! T-The paper cut me a-and . . . oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it! Honestly! I don't know why I said that!"

But as she babbled on, her cheeks flushed, he could only stare at her. He absently became aware of his heart upping its tempo and his breath quickening. A hot sensation of awareness rolled over his skin, forming goosebumps in its wake.

Hearing those filthy, corrupted words coming from such a small, sweet-looking woman who was filled to the brim with unrelenting morals and rules and motherly instincts . . .

_'Well, shit,' _he thought, slowly blowing a bubble as he watched the team try to soothe the distressed manager. _'I think I just fucking fell in love . . .'_


	15. Theme II: Complicated

**Title:** Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **A collection of drabbles, one-shots, and mini-stories dedicated to the Hiruma/Mamori pairing. Based on the "100 Themes" and LiveJournal's "30 Distractions" challenges.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Wow, this one has been sitting in my documents for, like, two months and I finally finished it. Sorry for not updating guys. I'm torn between writing for the _REPO! The Genetic Opera_ fandom and trying to keep my interest in this one. :\

Oh, and don't worry about the roman numerals. I just prefer using them to the digits. None of the themes are in order, so, of course, the numbers aren't going to be in order. :)

* * *

**Theme II: Complicated**

When dealing with Hiruma, or anything that included him, she found that it was an immensely complicated thing.

"But he's _insane_, Mamori!"

"Did he trick you into this?"

"He'll ruin you, Mamo-nee!"

"Did you lose a bet to him? Is that why you're doing this?"

"If he's threatening you, Mamori-san, we'll protect you!"

"You're too sweet and innocent, Mamori-chan! You'll be corrupted!"

"It's that book of his, isn't it? Oh, we don't care what blackmail he has on you, Mamori-neesan!"

She smiled guiltily, waving her hands sheepishly in an attempt to ward off practically the whole student body as they surrounded her, their cries of protest, questions, and vows of protection filling the hallway. The commotion reminded her of the day everyone had found out about her joining the American Football Club. It hadn't been the club itself that threw everyone into a tizzy . . . It was because she would be closely working with the well-known anti-student of the school – the Devil; Deimon's sociopath; Tokyo's tyrant; the man who was responsible for this second uproar of disbelief.

"No, _no_, I won't stand for it! You can't do this, Anezaki-san!"

She was a little surprised, seeing the members of the Disciplinary Committee Board forcing their way through the crowd, replacing those who had been standing closest to her until they made up the innermost circle.

The president of the committee jerkily patted out the wrinkles in his uniform, straightened his tie, frustratedly angled his circular glasses correctly on his nose . . . and then pointed a defiant finger at her, his hazel eyes narrowed and glaring.

"You will _not_ do this, Anezaki-san," he ordered loudly. A deafening hush fell over the massive circle of bodies, and causing her ears to feel slightly clogged from the sudden silence.

She leveled him with a firm look, a small frown tugging at her mouth.

"Don't give me that look," he snapped, unconsciously pushing his glasses up again as they slipped a second time. His lean, bookish-but-handsome features were contorted with anger, his cheeks lightly flushed as he started to pace back and forth, some of the surrounding students backing away to give him room.

She eyed him warily, not sure what to say to him. She knew better than to argue with him, given his hot-headedness and his need to be in absolute control. It made him a fantastic leader for a committee against disobedience and unruly behavior . . . but it made him a little terrifying if you were the one who invoked the temper. She remembered when he had yelled at her and demanded that she stop talking nonsense when she had told the committee of her plans to join the Hiruma-dominated football club. It had taken much persuasion from the other members to convince him that her being in the club might actually help dissuade Hiruma from some of his usual antics.

A small, tentative hand came to rest on her shoulder and she flicked her crystal-blue eyes to meet the soulful-brown ones of another committee officer.

"What he means is that you _shouldn't_ do this, Mamori," she gently chided, flicking an annoyed look at the scowling committee president, then back at her. "Why _are_ you doing this? You should know better than _any _us how dangerous and unstable he is."

"Exactly!" the sophisticated-appearing student shouted. She continued to frown at him, and he noticed. Sighing frustratedly, he put up a halting hand, as if warding off her defensiveness, his other hand pushing agitatedly through his short, light-brown hair. "Look, I'll be the first one to admit that you joining the football club actually had been a great idea. Granted, you didn't turn him into a glitter-eating angel . . . but the amount of disorder and damage he used to cause nearly daily has been brought to a great minimum. We don't even get complaints about him threatening students with guns anymore."

A lot of the onlookers nodded their heads vigorously, their expressions showing solemn gratitude. She smiled lightly, watching with an air of amusement as the committee president started to pace again, gesturing wildly as he continued his rant.

"But this . . . _this!_ _This_ is taking too far, Anezaki-san. No, I won't allow it to happen!" he shouted, coming to stop in front of her, using his much taller but lankier form to tower over her smaller figure, a blatant attempt to intimidate as he glared down at her through his spectacles.

But she couldn't find it in her heart to at least _pretend_ to be frightened. Not even close. Dealing with the blond-haired delinquent in question on a daily basis made other terrifying things seem . . . not terrifying.

If the threat didn't look like an electrified shark, tote around an invisible arsenal of weapons capable of mass destruction, or speak with such constant vulgarity that it could male up its own language of crudity . . . then it wasn't a threat.

She smiled kindly, trying to deter the boiling frustration she could feel rolling off him in waves. "But Yuuku-kun, if I was able to tame Hiruma-kun this much by just being his _manager_ . . . think of how well-behaved he'll be now?"

She fought hard . . . she really did. But when the words 'tame' and 'well-behaved' left her lips, she found that she really couldn't keep a straight face. She bit her lower lip as a grin started tugging at the corners, her self-control cracking when a desperately-suppressed giggle escaped, and she quickly pressed a loose fist to her mouth to smother it.

"_No!_" he cried, scowling darkly. He backed away from her to pace back and forth once more, his hands pulling at his hair. "You agreed to join that club to try to control Hiruma's violence; not just to watch out for that friend of yours! You were our soldier, sent out with the main purpose of infiltrating the enemy's forces."

It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her laughter in. Eyes sparking with mirth, she managed to murmur behind her fist, "And what better way to keep a close eye on him now, right? It's basically the same th-"

"No! No, this is _not_ the same thing!" He jerked his body around toward her, breathing hard with hot adrenaline and barely restrained rage. "It is _not._ This . . . this is . . . this is _treason!_ You're _switching_ sides; joining _him!_ You're c_ollaborating_ with the _enemy_, Anezaki-san! Why would you want to do such a thing?"

She smiled gently, light-blue eyes twinkling. "Because I can and because I _want_ to."

The collective gasp felt overly loud to her.

The frazzled, stunned committee president gaped at her. He lifted a trembling finger at her, his voice cracked with indignation and disbelief as he felt his control of the situation slipping away fast. "Y-You _want_ to? B-But you _can't!_ You can't just . . . just _abandon_ your responsibilities as a disciplinary officer for that . . . that _criminal!_ You can't, _you __**can't**__!_ If you do this, Anezaki-san, I swear I'll . . . I'll . . . !"

_"Kekeke . . . you'll __**what**__?"_

The crowd of students immediately parted at the new voice – like a people yielding to the presence of their powerful king.

She felt a gentle warmth rise into her cheeks, a smile blooming when she saw him there, standing at the entrance doors, imposingly tall and deadly handsome, the usual unkemptness of his school uniform expressing his rebelliousness and offensive personality. A hand was resting idly on a narrow hip while the other cradled the butt of a _Colt M16A4 MWS_ automatic rifle against his shoulder.

She paused, blinking, then mentally sighed as she realized that she had just recognized and pin-point named the weapon exactly.

He looked like an arrogant king, exuding brutal power and control with an air of indifference as he stood there, wearing that face-splitting, shark-toothed grin. But there was something different about it . . .

His emerald-green eyes, beautifully shaped like a feline's, were hard; cold. They were void of their usual deviousness, the mischief of his grin having fallen short on its destination.

"All you fucking busybodies making such a fuss over who she's goin' with . . . and you end up fucking _forgetting_ who she's goin' with."

Her heart kicked in its pace as he turned his emotionless gaze onto the committee president, his feline eyes unblinking as he stared him down.

"Hiruma-kun," she started, worrying her lip as she took a step forward, unsure of this new side of him.

She'd experienced so many characteristics that made up his outrageous personality: his obnoxiousness when he taunted and teased; his genius on and off the field; his total lack of remorse or guilt when he threatened and exploited others for his own personal ambitions; his violent tendencies via automatic rifles unloaded at feet or into the sky when his authority was challenged; his violent tendencies via automatic rifles unloaded into the sky or hard kicks to the rear when he was extremely proud or ecstatic; his frustration when he ran out of ideas while on the field . . . or when she stood firm against his absolute rule; the emotional and physical exhaustion he had sometimes succumbed to after every victory in the life-or-death games he took command of . . .

. . . the dead seriousness in his tone when he had entered the clubroom the evening before, coolly demanding, _"Yo, fuckin' manager, be my goddamn girlfriend."_

But this was different; something she hadn't seen before until now . . .

Something dangerous glinted in his eyes when he spoke, his nerve-wrenching gaze unwavering on Yuuku. "Gonna kick her out of the committee all because she has a mind of her own, fuckin' four-eyes? Tch, s'fine by me. I would have ended up taking her out of it myself." His grin widened impossibly more. "Don't like the idea of perverts being around my fuckin' girlfriend."

She saw the immediate tensing of the disciplinary president's shoulders and she frowned a little. What was Hiruma trying to say . . . ?

"I-I don't know what you're talking about!" Yuuku spat vehemently, but his voice shook and he was glancing around anxiously; _guiltily._

She wrung her hands nervously, watching Yuuku. Whatever blackmail Hiruma had on him, by blatantly denying it Yuuku had just given the bleach-blond quarterback the invitation to show it.

"_Ho-o . . .?_ You don't, huh?"

A sudden, terrified stillness seized everyone when those long, tapered fingers disappeared inside his uniform jacket. When they reappeared, a worn, black book was gripped between them. Colored page-markers stuck out in various places and its title was barely afloat in a sea of scribbled, quick notes: _The Devil's Notebook_.

"Mm, let's see," he idly murmured, his fingers rapidly flicking through the pages of the book before stopping abruptly on one. "Yuuku Ishimato: Seen in the girl's locker room during their changing period on a near daily basis since last year."

A hushed commotion of shocked gasps and murmurs of disbelief swam through the student crowd, everyone looking at one another and then back at the quaking disciplinary president, eyeing him in sudden mistrust. They all knew, despite how horrible and deceitful Hiruma was . . . the Devil's Notebook held no lies.

"Y-You have n-no proof of that!" the tall boy cried, and he looked around desperately, looking for support. "He has no proof!"

"_Kekeke . . ._ No?"

She brought hand to her mouth, staring in stunned silence when the quarterback drew a few photos from the book.

He tossed them to the floor and allowed everyone to get their fill of pictures: close-ups of their most respected peer crouched down and hidden in the darkness of the girl's shower room, a video camera poised in his hand as he peered through it, recording various girls undressing.

She could only stare at them as Yuuku dropped his head and slowly sank to his knees.

As loud and angry exclamations erupted around her, accusing fingers stabbing viciously in the direction of the ashamed, corrupted disciplinary president, she lifted her eyes to Hiruma's.

A satisfied smirk was her reply before a long-boned finger was crooked at her in a 'let's get out of here' gesture.

She quickly followed after his retreating back.

* * *

OMAKE:

"The fuck are looking at?" he growled, having had enough of her staring at him for the last three minutes as they continued their casual walk to the clubhouse.

Suddenly, slender arms wrapped around on of his and he was tugged up against her. He dropped her a disgruntled and slightly confused look.

She smiled softly up at him, her soft-blue eyes reflecting something almost tender . . . and fuck him if his heart didn't start beating a little faster in response.

"Those pictures . . . the girls' faces were blurred out, Hiruma-kun."

"Tch. So? The blackmail was on fucking four-eyes. Not anyone else."

"That was very a kind thing for you to do," she whispered, clearly seeing through his dismissal.

He smirked.

"Whatever, damn girlfriend."


	16. Story: Winter Heat I

**Title: **Winter Heat  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity; SDG's Bad Humor  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **This is the result of a prompt given to me in the "Secret Santa Challenge" over at the Hiruma/Mamori livejournal community.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm in a writing rut at the moment. Just posting old stuff. Stuff I should definitely finish, lol.

* * *

**Chapter One**

The island countertop was deserted; not a soul around for miles . . . or inches, to be exact. The overhead lamp beat down rays of light on the smooth, white surface, the heat mercilessly drying up the residue from a recent wipe down with Clorox wipes, leaving it bone-dry once more.

In the distance, an identical countertop could be seen, hovered over by polished, wooden cabinets, both running along the angled walls, circling and surrounding the island. There was a stainless steel sink to the left; a black-iron oven and white-door dishwasher to the right.

All were separated from the lone countertop by the three-foot gap surrounding it like an invisible ocean, further explaining why it was called an '_island'_. A failed leap of faith would turn into a successful suicide straight to the white-tiled floor waiting four feet below.

The island was withdrawn; lonely. Depressing abandonment crushed it.

Until . . . a gigantic bunny fell from the sky!

Cotton-stuffed and button-eyed, it was a marvelous terror to behold as it landed with a '_squeak!'_ on the hard countertop. Long, male fingers were wrapped around its white, plump middle, forcing it to hop from side to side.

It spoke in an exaggeratedly high-pitched voice. "Oh, somebody help me! My name is Peter Cotton-Butt and I am _so_ terrified! That handsome of devil Hiruma is out to get me!"

A red bat plushie fell from the sky, landing on the countertop with a squeaky _'Ya-Ha!'_, pale fingers also clenched around its body.

It said in an equally forced, high-pitched voice, "You should be scared shitless, Peter Cotton-Butt! But not of Hiruma."

The stuffed bunny turned toward the bat plushie, squeaking, "Why not?"

The bat plushie cackled. "'Cause . . . you should be more worried about me!"

And suddenly, the bat whipped out a heavy steak knife and mercilessly started stabbing it into the bunny. The hidden voice actor made the bunny wail in horror and agony as white, cotton stuffing spilled out.

Abruptly, smaller hands shot down from the sky and snatched the stuffed animals from the larger ones.

_"Mou_, stop that!"

She scowled down at the spiky-haired blond currently crouched beside the island. She clutched her traumatized stuffed animals close as he cackled and stood up, flashing her a wide, shark-toothed grin.

She ignored it and stalked over to the utensils drawer and tossed the knife back into it. When she then held the plush toys out to examine the damaged, she gasped, seeing the cruel stab wounds bleeding cotton stuffing. "Oh, Hiruma, look what you did!"

"Tch . . . it had it coming," he casually replied, and began walking out of the kitchen.

She attempted to glare holes into his broad back as she followed him into the living room. "Oh, it did _not!_ Your bullying tendencies have no limitations, do they? Even inanimate objects fall victim to your unnecessary viciousness!"

The newly-appointed quarterback of Team Japan rounded the brown leather couch and fell down on it heavily, showing no respect for her mother's furniture as he stretched his solid, toned length along the thick cushions.

He glanced up at her, his expression of indifference only adding to her boiling irritation. Looking away again, he started digging around behind one of the cushions, drawling, "They're always eyeballing me; creepy as fuck." He suddenly pulled out a _M9 Beretta 9mm Pistol_, the blood-red steel glinting in the soft, dim light of the flames that flickered in the fireplace. He turned it over in his hand a few times, examining it, before gripping it properly and lazily pulling the slide back, letting it snap forward again with a sharp '_clack'._

With a small sound of disgust, she reached down and snatched the weapon from his hands, glaring. He blinked his feline-shaped eyes up at her, trying but failing to feign innocence, the rest of his sharp features obscured by the impressive expansion of a bubble.

"_These_," she started impatiently, waving the gun around exasperatedly and ignoring him when his hands suddenly came up to shield himself, his emerald-green eyes widening and the bubble popping messily across his face, "are not allowed here! You know this! Ugh, why do you always have to be so disrespectful? I mean, really! Is it _that_ hard to just follow at least _one_ of my rules?"

She let him snatch back the weighted steel from her hand as she continued to rant, her light-blue eyes rolling upward as she gestured with the now free hand. "I mean, you bring weapons here and _stash_ them in random places like a little squirrel; did you know my mom found _two_ grenades in the bowl cabinet the other day? Or that I found one of your rifles stuffed under my mattress? Not my bed; my _mattress!_ I was having back problems all week because of that! And then you had to nerve to tell me that I _'looked like roadkill doused in acid'_ because of the sleep I _couldn't_ get! Oh, then there's the matter at hand: you're always _destroying_ my things! I'm sorry stuffed animals don't have eyelids, Hiruma-kun, or even the mannerisms to not _stare,_ but that doesn't mean you can just –_"_

Lost in her venting, she didn't notice the subject of her aggravation quickly knocking out the ammo clip from the pistol and stuffing it back into the cushions, deftly disregarding the whole first section of her tirade by doing so.

"- . . . and you never sit properly on the furniture!"

She pouted in her frustration, glaring hotly at him.

He silently exhaled another bubble, his thinly-defined eyebrows arched high and his deep-green eyes blinking, making him appear utterly boyish and unholy innocent. He glanced at his gun, then back at her, slowly offering it back.

She scowled and grabbed it from him with such hostility that he quickly jerked his hand back, as if he had thought she was going to rip it along with the firearm.

Instead of being like a normal, conscience-bound human, apologizing to her for guiltlessly slaughtering her plushies, using her home to hide illegal weaponry, and misusing the furniture by at least taking his feet _off_ the arm of the couch and straightening up . . . he just wordlessly popped the bubble, regarding her coolly.

With a slump of her shoulders, she finally gave in, sighing. "Why do I even bother with you?"

"Hey, I'm the one at the damn inconvenience here, fuckin' babysitting you and shit," came his taunting response. Her immediate reaction was one she knew he had probably been probing for, but she didn't care.

A flush of indignation warmed her cheeks and she childishly chucked her ruined bunny plushie at him. "You are _not_ my babysitter, Hiruma!"

He effortlessly deflected the plushie missile with a wave of his big hand, the impact extracting a '_squeak!'_ from the toy before it was forced to change course, landing in the lit, decorated branches of the room's Christmas tree.

"'Watchdog,' 'bodyguard,' 'babysitter'; all the fucking same," he replied offhandedly, and he started ticking off a list of to-do's on his fingers as she hurriedly went to the tree. "Fuckin' feed you, fuckin' entertain you, fuckin' make sure you get a bath, –" he ignored her startled, outraged denial "– fuckin' get you in your damn night clothes, fuckin' tuck you in, fuckin' read you a bedtime story, fuckin' kiss you goodnight and say," he took a moment to clear his throat a couple of times before speaking in a horrible attempt to sound like a woman, "_'Sweet dreams, sugarplum! Know that mommy fuckin' loves you forever and ever and ever and ever and ev–"_

He was cut off when the red bat plushie connected with the side of his head. He cackled, sliding her a devilish grin.

"My mother didn't tell you to do _any_ of that!" she cried, her face burning with mortification and anger, her mind plague with vivid images of him actually doing them. "I don't even know why you're _here_. It's not your day."

She dragged his feet off the couch, letting them fall heavily with a muffled _thump_ on the carpet, and took their spot as he grabbed up the remote and clicked on the television.

"Tch, fucking mohawk's working; called me and told me to babysit for him."

"_Mou,"_ she growled, pursing her lips as she glowered at him. "It's _not_ babysitting! It's _body_guarding. And you could have just as easily had one of the brothers or Kurita-san take your place."

"Yeah, _screw_ that."

She blinked, surprised by the sudden harshness in his voice. But when he turned to eye her, there was a familiar mischievousness in his defined, feline eyes.

"As if I'm going to pass up the fuckin' chance to get out of guard duty," he supplied, tilting a triumphant grin at her. "Shitty kicker agreed to do overtime in payment; going to take my days for the next two weeks."

She scowled at him as he directed his attention back to the dancing, noisy images on the television screen.

When he ignored her scorching glare, she huffed and turned away.

_Guard duty._

She frowned a little and busied herself with situating her body until she was huddled up against the couch's arm, her socked feet tucked under her and her bunny plush held tightly to her chest, her chin nuzzling its fuzzy head as she moped.

That's what the Deimon Devil Bats had dubbed it. _Guard duty._

Since she could remember, her mother always had to take extra shifts at the hospital during the holidays, mostly because a great number of the staff had already booked their holiday vacations the year before.

And it was this year that she learned just how dangerous is was to be left home alone, especially past midnight . . .


	17. Distraction VIII: Don't Touch Me

**Title:** Gunsmoke Signals  
**Author: **Operation-Villainous  
**Character Pairings: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Humor  
**Rating: **T  
**Warnings: **Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing Eyeshield 21  
**Summary: **A collection of drabbles, one-shots, and mini-stories dedicated to the Hiruma/Mamori pairing. Based on the "100 Themes" and LiveJournal's "30 Distractions" challenges.

**Recommendation(s):**  
_Page Width: _Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

_Light/Dark:_ This chapter is best read on the **light **background setting because it deals with nighttime.

* * *

**Distraction VIII: Don't Touch Me**

"You're goin' down, fucking manager."

"Not even in your dreams, Hiruma-kun."

"_Kekeke_, only someone as conceited and spoiled as you would think I'd dream about them."

"And only someone as arrogant and pigheaded as you would say something like that."

She smiled sweetly as she took the offered football from the still cackling blond and strolled past, making her way to her team's side of the field.

"I can't believe we're doing this, Mamori," Ako whispered, pushing her glasses higher up on her nose.

"Yeah! I mean, those guys look like they're going to _enjoy_ tackling us!" Sara squeaked as she wrung her hands nervously.

She sighed exasperatedly, standing between the two with the football clutched in her small hands. "This is just for fun. And for the last time, this is _flag_ football; not the real thing. Tackling isn't allowed."

She grinned, her crystal-blue twinkling with feminine mischief as she turned to stare up at the only male on their all-girl team. "Besides, we have Musashi-san to protect us if things do get a little rough."

"YA-A!" cheered Deimon's roller-skating cheerleader, her grin infectious as she threw her arms around one of the kicker's thicker, brawnier ones, tugging on it excitedly. "Gen-nii will be our strong, noble demon slayer!"

The tall, handsomely muscular carpenter smirked faintly, idly picking at his ear. A pink flag-belt was wrapped around his solid waist, blatantly displaying his alliance against those with the black flag-belts; _Heaven's Angels _versus the _Dark Devils._ The other girls on the team were crowded around him, sighing dreamingly as they smiled up at him, their hearts practically in their eyes. Even her two friends were distracted from their previous worries at the mentioning of his name.

She couldn't blame them. The deep voice; the hard, square jaw and dark stubble; the soulful-brown eyes; the darkly-tanned, muscular body - they all made Deimon's Sixty-Yard Magnum an irresistible studcake. And the heavy, black mohawk and single piercing dangling from his earlobe only enhanced his masculine attractiveness, giving him that bad-boy edge that every girl loved.

"Are you sure you want to be on our team?" she inquired. He was only there to level out the players, the girls having only made up six of her team, including herself. But they could have just as easily recruited Sena, or even Monta, who, she discovered, had ended up beside himself with disappointment when Musashi had nonchalantly volunteered first.

He turned a quirky smile down at her, the curling of his lips tilting up the light, dark stubble surrounding them. Something amused and male glinted in his dark brown eyes. "Being on a team of pretty girls is not something I'm going to be teased about, Anezaki-san."

She smiled, feeling wonderfully flattered as her cheeks heated pleasantly.

She heard him chuckle as they all moved toward the center of the field, getting into position as Hiruma's team did the same.

She crouched slightly behind the bigger, heavier body of Deimon's kicker, hands out and ready to catch the ball once she issued the command. They were taking a risk, making her quarterback when Musashi would have been more suited, he having more arm strength than her. But he had declined when she'd brought it up, reassuring her that she would do all right ... and reminded her that quarterbacks weren't all about passes, Hiruma being a testament to that.

"Set!" she called. The effect of the exclamation was almost immediate: bodies shifted faintly; footing was secured; muscles tensed.

She could see all of those on the opposing team that were ready to rush forward. Kurita and the Huh-Huh Brothers had taken their normal positions as linemen. The shorter frames of Sena and Monta were located on either side of Hiruma. And Hiruma, being his usual self, was grinning like a shark that had just spotted its next meal.

Her heart skipped a beat, realizing that the grin was aimed pointedly in her direction.

She could have easily brushed it off, being that it was natural to have all attention focused on her because she was going to handle the ball ... but that's not what she saw in that wicked grin.

Her instincts wailed in fright, sensing danger.

"Hut, hut!" she cried, her heart leaping into her throat as chaos instantly exploded around her. Musashi snapped the ball, it slipping perfectly into her hands, before immediately shooting forward with the girls in his line to block the _Dark Devils_.

She backed up several steps, looking for her team's receiver, until she actually backed _into_ someone. Squeaking, she whirled around, eyes wide, expecting someone from the other team to be behind her.

Instead, she found her receiver and running back, Ako and Sara, clinging onto each other, shaking and whimpering pitifully.

"Oh, _come on!"_ she cried, staring at them in exasperation.

_"Kekeke."_

There was a sharp tug at her waist and she twirled back around only to come face-to-face with a shark-toothed grin.

She gaped wordlessly when Hiruma lifted his arm and lightly shook the length of her flag-belt in her face. The whistle shrieked, indicating the end of the play,

Yukimitsu came jogging up, dressed in a referee's black-and-white striped uniform, his whistle dangling around his neck.

"Sorry, Mamori-san," he said, looking apologetic as he gently took the ball from her and handed it to over to Hiruma. Blowing the whistle again, the makeshift referee jogged back down the field.

"Told you, fucking manager," Hiruma cackled, emerald-green eyes glinting with gleefulness.

She glared and reached out to grab her flag-belt, but it was easily lifted higher, out of her reach. "Hiruma!"

"Oh, did you want this back?"

Scowling, she silently reached out again and managed to yank the belt from his hand, leveling him with a determined look as she hooked the pink belt back around her waist.

He grinned maniacally and turned back to his team, lazily tossing the ball up before catching it. "Into position, fucking brats!"

Heaving a sigh, she turned back to her own team. Musashi was standing off to the side, looking amused at how terrified the girls had become and Suzuna was beyond irritated, trying to cheer the others up and offer encouragement.

And it seemed to work, the girls falling back into their positions, though a bit more reluctantly than before.

"SET!" she heard Hiruma shout, the command putting an edge in his tone; an edge that told his team that there would be consequences if they failed him.

She flexed her fingers, her breath quickening as adrenaline began pumping hot and fast through her veins. She became aware that their game was attracting an audience and she looked around, suddenly distracted by Deimon High students taking seats in the grass and under trees, excited murmurs going around; possibly even bets.

"HUT, HUT!"

The shout snapped her back to attention just in time to see everyone rush forward, trying to get to the ball. She immediately ran along the sideline as her line rushed forward, trying to get to the opposing quarterback.

But by the time she reached Hiruma, he had already wound himself back and flung his arm forward, the ball spearing through the air.

_"Catch MAX!"_

She gasped, hearing Monta's triumphant shout. She quickly changed course from the devilish quarterback

"_Kekeke_._"_

A long, toned arm snapped around her waist and hauled her against a solid body.

She shrieked in outrage and glared up at the quarterback. "Hiruma-kun!"

But he ignored her, grinning as he watched his receiver charge down the field. "Get a fuckin' touchdown, you damn monkey!"

Competition burning hot through her veins, she struggled against the arm locked around her waist as she looked around desperately, trying to see anyone who was closest to the receiver and wasn't being blocked.

Then, a miracle that was Musashi managed to fake a left with Juumonji and escaped him, immediately chasing after Monta.

Squealing in happiness, she forgot about Hiruma and started shouting in encouragement, "Get him, Musashi-san!"

"Tch, fuckin' old man."

She looked up smugly, expecting to see annoyance on his face. Instead, he was still wearing his maniacal grin, and her heart sank with the dawning realization that he had a plan.

Suddenly, he whipped out a black remote, its long antenna bobbing slightly from the motion. Its single, crimson button glinted ominously in the sunlight.

"H-Hiruma?" she squeaked, eyes widening. "Is ... is that a _detonator?"_

His emerald-green eyes harbored something unholy as he grinned down at her. _"Kekeke_. No, it's a fuckin' TV remote."

He pressed the button with a sounding _click_.

... And a section of the field exploded skyward, the geyser of dirt and grass enveloping Musashi and Monta.

For one dreadful moment, while the girls on her team screamed together in terror and the rest of the boys' team scattered in fright along with some of their audience, she thought the two Deimon players had been injured.

Until ... she heard Monta's _"Victory MAX!"_ on the other side of the dirt cloud, followed by the whistle that signaled a touchdown.

"M-Musashi-san?" she cried, pulling herself from Hiruma's body.

There was a long, horrible pause. And then ... a string of curses and threats, so vile and derogatory that they made Hiruma sound good-natured, floated across the field.

A blush warmed her cheeks and she brought a hand to her mouth when she heard the normally cool-mannered, polite Musashi unleash such a torrent of filthy expressions. Behind her, Hiruma laughed like a mad jackal.

"Oi!" he called, grinning as the air finally cleared, revealing an extremely dirty and roughed-up kicker. "Watch your mouth, fucking geezer! There're ladies present for fuck's sake!"

"You!" she snapped, finally jerking from her stunned composer. She spun around and smacked him on the arm. "You cheater! You can't touch or _restrain _people in flag football, Hiruma! And even though I know it doesn't say so in the rulebook, I think it's pretty self-explanatory that you're not allowed to use _landmines_ or any other kind of explosives _either!_ _Argh_, can't you do _anything_ fair?"

Much to her aggravation, he just smirked down at her, scratching the bridge of his nose.

She ground her teeth, slicing him with a hot glare, her hands curling into clenched fists.

Oh, she could just _hit_ that cocky grin off his face! She could just shove him, scream at him, call him names! She could –

She blinked, her anger and frustration immediately draining from her system as an idea – a very _ludicrous_ idea – struck her.

_She could play his game._

With a suddenly sly smile, she locked her gaze with his.

"All right, Hiruma-kun," she stated cheerily, moving in close to him; so close she could feel his body heat and recognize a light cologne. He leaned away slightly, eyeing her. She continued to smile, cooing, "You want to play dirty? Fine, then. Let's play _dirty."_

With a haughty toss of her head and a pivot of her hips, she sauntered away, making sure to put an emphasis in the natural sway of her hips. Her inner prim-and-proper disciplinarian screeched in outrage at her scandalous behavior and the immoral plan piecing itself together in her mind, but she promised herself that she would be mortified with herself later ...

Right now, she was playing to win, and that was the only thing that seemed to play at the front of her thoughts as she called her team in to explain what they needed to do.


End file.
